Suddenly  he  sprang  upright          Frontispiece 


THE  MESSAGE 


LOUIS    TRACY 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  "WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING,  THE  WHEEL  O' 
FORTUNE,  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  KANSAS,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
JOSEPH    CUMMINGS   CHASE 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  &>  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1908 

BY  EDWARD  J.  CLODE 


Entered  at  Stationers?  Hall 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

DERELICTS 1 

CHAPTER  II 
How  THE  MESSAGE  WAS  DELIVERED 19 

CHAPTER  HI 

WHEREIN  A  STRONG  MAN  YIELDS  TO  CIRCUMSTANCES      .     .     36 

CHAPTER  IV 
FIGUERO  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY 53 

CHAPTER  V 
A  MAN  AND  A  STORY  —  BOTH  UNEMOTIONAL 71 

CHAPTER  VI 
WHEREIN  WARDEN  SETS  A  NEW  COURSE 90 

CHAPTER  VH 
Two  WOMEN 112 

CHAPTER  VHI 
SHOWING  How  MANY  ROADS  LEAD  THE  SAME  WAY      .     .     131 

CHAPTER  DI 

WARDEN  BEGINS  His  ODYSSEY 150 

iii 


2226125 


Contents 

CHAPTER  X 

PAGE 

HASSAN'S  TOWEB  —  AND  THE  COLONIAL  OFFICE  ....     172 

CHAPTER  XI 
THE  BLUE  MAN  —  AND  A  WHITE 193 

CHAPTER  XII 

EVELYN  HAS  UNEXPECTED  VISITORS 215 

CHAPTER  XIII 

EVELYN  ENTERS  THE  FRAY 234 

CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  DRUMS  OF  OKU 258 

CHAPTER  XV 
WHEREIN  ONE  SURPRISE  BEGETS  MANY 279 

CHAPTER  XVI 
A  FIVE  MINUTES'  FIGHT 300 

CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  SETTLEMENT 319 


IV 


The  Message 

CHAPTER  I 

DERELICTS 

"TT'S   fine!"    said    Arthur   Warden,    lowering   his 

JL  binoculars  so  as  to  glut  his  eyes  with  the  full 
spectacle.  "In  fact,  it's  more  than  fine,  it's  glorious!" 

He  spoke  aloud  in  his  enthusiasm.  A  stout,  elderly 
man  who  stood  near  —  a  man  with  "retired  trades- 
man" writ  large  on  face  and  figure  —  believed  that  the 
tall,  spare-built  yachtsman  was  praising  the  weather. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  chortled  pompously,  "this  is  a  reel 
August  day.  Z  knew  it.  Fust  thing  this  morning  I 
tole  my  missus  we  was  in  for  a  scorcher." 

Warden  gradually  became  aware  that  these  inepti- 
tudes were  by  way  of  comment.  He  turned  and  read 
the  weather-prophet's  label  at  a  glance.  But  life  was 
too  gracious  at  that  moment,  and  he  was  far  too  well- 
disposed  toward  all  men,  that  he  should  dream  of 
inflicting  a  snub. 

"That  was  rather  clever  of  you,"  he  agreed  genially. 
"Now,  though  the  barometer  stood  high,  I  personally 
was  dreading  a  fog  three  hours  ago." 

The  portly  one  gurgled. 

"I've  got  a  glass,"  he  announced.  "Gev'  three 
1 


The  Message 

pun'  ten  for  it,  but  there's  a  barrowmeter  in  my  bones 
that's  worth  a  dozen  o'  them  things.  I'll  back  rheu- 
matiz  an'  a  side  o'  bacon  any  day  to  beat  the  best  glass 
ever  invented." 

All  unknowing,  here  was  the  touch  of  genius  that 
makes  men  listen.  Warden  showed  his  interest. 

"A  side  of  bacon!"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,  sir.  Nothing  to  ekal  it.  I  was  in  the  trade, 
so  I  know  wot  I'm  talkin'  about.  And,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  why  not  ?  Pig  skin  an'  salt  —  one 
of  'em  won't  have  any  truck  wi'  damp  —  doesn't  want 
it  an'  shows  it  —  an'  t'other  sucks  it  up  like  a  calf 
drinkin'  milk.  I've  handled  bacon  in  tons,  every 
brand  in  the  market,  an'  you  can't  smoke  any  of  'em 
on  a  muggy  day." 

"Does  your  theory  account  for  the  old-fashioned 
notion  that  pigs  can  see  the  wind?" 

The  stout  man  considered  the  point.  It  was  new 
to  him,  and  he  was  a  Conservative. 

"I'm  better  acquent  wi'  bacon,"  he  said  stubbornly. 

"So  I  gather.  I  was  only  developing  your  very 
original  idea,  on  the  principle  that 

" '  You  may  break,  you  may  shatter,  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still.'  " 

The  ex-bacon-factor  rapped  an  emphatic  stick  on 
the  pavement.  Though  he  hoped  some  of  his  friends 
would  see  him  hob-nobbing  "with  a  swell,"  he  refused 
to  be  made  game  of. 

"Wot  'as  scent  got  to  do  with  it?"  he  demanded 
wrathfully. 


Derelicts 

"Everything.  Believe  me,  pigs  have  been  used  as 
pointers.  And  consider  the  porcine  love  of  flowers. 
Why,  there  once  was  a  pig  named  Maud  because  it 
would  come  into  the  garden." 

Had  Warden  laughed  he  might  have  given  the  cue 
that  was  lacking.  But  his  clean-cut,  somewhat  sallow 
face  did  not  relax,  and  an  angry  man  puffed  away  from 
him  in  a  red  temper. 

He  caught  scraps  of  soliloquy. 

"A  pig  named  Maud!  .  .  .  Did  anybody  ever  hear 
ihe  like?  .  .  .  An'  becos  it  kem  into  a  garden.  .  .  . 
Might  just  as  well  'ave  called  it  Maria." 

Then  Warden,  left  at  peace  with  the  world,  devoted 
himself  again  to  the  exquisite  panorama  of  Cowes  on 
a  sunlit  Monday  of  the  town's  great  week.  In  front 
sparkled  the  waters  of  the  Solent,  the  Bond  Street  of 
ocean  highways.  A  breath  of  air  from  the  west  rippled 
over  a  strong  current  sweeping  eastward.  It  merely 
kissed  the  emerald  plain  into  tiny  facets.  It  was  so 
light  a  breeze  that  any  ordinary  sailing  craft  would 
have  failed  to  make  headway  against  the  tide,  and  the 
gay  flags  and  bunting  of  an  innumerable  pleasure  fleet 
hung  sleepily  from  their  staffs  and  halyards.  Yet  it 
sufficed  to  bring  a  covey  of  white-winged  yachts  flying 
back  to  Cowes  after  rounding  the  East  Lepe  buoy. 
Jackyard  topsails  and  bowsprit  spinnakers  preened 
before  it.  Though  almost  imperceptible  on  shore,  it 
awoke  these  gorgeous  butterflies  of  the  sea  into  life  and 
motion.  Huge  23-meter  cutters,  such  as  White  Heather 
II,  Brynhild  and  Nyria,  splendid  cruisers  like  Maoona, 

3 


The  Message 

Merrymaid,  Shima,  Creole,  and  Britomart,  swooped 
grandly  into  the  midst  of  the  anchored  craft  as  though 
bent  on  self-destruction.  To  the  unskilled  eye  it 
seemed  a  sheer  miracle  that  any  of  them  should  emerge 
from  the  chaos  of  yachts,  redwings,  launches,  motor- 
boats,  excursion  steamers,  and  smaller  fry  that  beset 
their  path.  But  Cowes  is  nothing  if  not  nautical. 
Those  who  understood  knew  that  bowsprits  and  din- 
ghies of  moored  yachts  would  be  cleared  magically, 
and  even  spinnaker  booms  topped  to  avoid  lesser 
obstruction.  Those  who  did  not  understand  —  who 
heard  no  syllable  of  the  full  and  free  language  that 
greeted  an  inane  row-boat  essaying  an  adventurous 
crossing  of  the  course  —  gazed  breathlessly  at  these 
wondrous  argosies,  and  marveled  at  their  escape 
from  disaster.  Then  the  white  fleet  swept  past  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  and  vanished  behind  Old  Castle 
Point  on  the  way  to  far  distant  buoy  or  light-ship 
that  marked  the  beginning  of  the  homeward  run. 
And  that  was  all  —  a  brief  flight  of  fairy  ships  — 
and  Cowes  forthwith  settled  down  to  decorous  junket- 
ing. 

Away  to  the  northwest  a  gathering  of  gray-hulled 
monsters  had  thundered  a  royal  salute  of  twenty-one 
guns,  and  the  smoke-cloud  still  lay  in  a  blue  film  on 
the  Hampshire  coast.  The  Dreadnought  was  hauling 
at  her  anchors  before  taking  a  king  and  an  emperor  to 
witness  the  prowess  of  her  gunners.  The  emperor's 
private  yacht,  a  half-fledged  man-o'-war,  was  creeping 
in  the  wake  of  the  competing  yachts.  Perchance  her 

4 


Derelicts 

officers  might  see  more  of  British  gunnery  practice 
than  of  the  racing. 

Close  at  hand  a  swarm  of  launches  and  ships'  boats 
buzzed  round  the  landing  slip  of  the  Royal  Yacht  Club. 
The  beautiful  lawn  and  gardens  were  living  parterres 
of  color,  for  the  Castle  is  a  famous  rendezvous  of  well- 
dressed  women.  Parties  were  assembling  for  luncheon 
either  in  the  clubhouse  or  on  board  the  palatial  vessels 
in  the  roads.  To  the  multitude,  yachting  at  Cowes 
consists  of  the  blare  of  a  starting-gun,  the  brief  vision 
of  a  cluster  of  yachts  careening  under  an  amazing  press 
of  canvas,  and,  for  the  rest,  gossip,  eating,  bridge  — 
with  a  picnic  or  a  dance  to  eke  out  the  afternoon  and 
evening. 

Arthur  Warden  soon  turned  his  back  on  the  social 
Paradise  he  was  not  privileged  to  enter.  He  was  re- 
signed to  the  fact  that  the  breeze  which  sent  the  com- 
petitors in  the  various  matches  spinning  merrily  to 
Spithead  would  not  move  his  hired  cutter  a  yard  against 
the  tide.  So,  having  nothing  better  to  do,  he  sauntered 
along  the  promenade  toward  the  main  street.  On  the 
way  he  passed  the  one-time  purveyor  of  bacon  sitting 
beside  a  lady  who  by  long  association  had  grown  to 
resemble  him. 

"Now  I  wonder  if  her  name  is  Maria,"  he  mused. 

Drifting  with  the  holiday  crowd,  he  bought  some 
picture  postcards,  a  box  of  cigarettes,  and  a  basket  of 
hothouse  peaches.  Being  a  dilettante  in  some  respects, 
he  admired  and  became  the  prospective  owner  of  the 
fruit  before  he  learned  the  price.  There  were  four 

5 


The  Message 

peaches  in  the  basket,  and  they  cost  him  ten  shil- 
lings. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  as  the  shopkeeper  threw  the  half 
sovereign  carelessly  into  the  till,  "I  see  you  have  catered 
for  Lucullus?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  sir,"  said  the  greengrocer  affably. 
"Where  does  he  live?" 

"He  had  villas  at  Tusculum  and  Neapolis." 

"There's  no  such  places  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  sir." 

"Strange!  Has  not  the  game-dealer  across  the 
street  supplied  him  with  peacocks'  tongues?" 

The  man  grinned. 

"  Somebody's  bin  gettin*  at  you,  sir,"  he  cried. 

"True,  very  true.  Yet,  according  to  Horace,  I  sup 
with  Lucullus  to-night." 

"Horace  said  that,  did  he?" 

The  greengrocer  suddenly  turned  and  peered  down 
a  stairway. 

"Horace!"  he  yelled,  "who's  this  here  Lucullus 
you've  bin  gassin'  about?" 

A  shock-headed  boy  appeared. 

"Loo  who?"  said  he. 

Warden  departed  swiftly. 

"My  humor  does  not  appeal  to  Cowes,"  he  reflected. 
"I  have  scored  two  failures.  Having  conjured  Horace 
from  a  coal-cellar  let  me  now  confer  with  Diogenes  in 
his  tub." 

Applied  to  Peter  Evans,  and  his  phenomenally  small 
dinghy,  the  phrase  was  a  happy  enough  description  of 
the  ex-pilot  who  owned  the  Nancy.  Evans  and  his 

6 


Derelicts 

craft  had  gone  out  of  commission  together.  Both  were 
famous  in  the  annals  of  Channel  pilotage,  but  an  acci- 
dent had  deprived  Peter  of  his  left  leg,  so  he  earned  a 
livelihood  by  summer  cruising  round  the  coast,  and  he 
was  now  awaiting  his  present  employer  at  a  quay  in 
the  river  Medina. 

But  Warden's  pace  slackened  again,  once  he  was 
clear  of  the  fruiterer's  shop.  Sailing  was  out  of  the 
question  until  the  breeze  freshened.  It  was  in  his 
mind  to  bid  Peter  meet  him  again  at  four  o'clock. 
Meanwhile,  he  would  go  to  Newport  by  train,  and 
ramble  in  Parkhurst  Forest  for  a  couple  of  hours. 
Recalling  that  happy-go-lucky  mood  in  later  days  of 
storm  and  stress,  he  tried  to  piece  together  the  trivial 
incidents  that  were  even  then  conspiring  to  bring 
about  the  great  climax  of  his  life.  A  pace  to  left  or 
right,  a  classical  quip  at  his  extravagance  in  the  matter 
of  the  peaches,  a  slight  hampering  of  free  movement 
because  the  Portsmouth  ferry-boat  happened  to  be 
disgorging  some  hundreds  of  sightseers  into  the  main 
street  of  West  Cowes  —  each  of  these  things,  so  insig- 
nificant, so  commonplace,  helped  to  bring  him  to  the 
one  spot  on  earth  where  fate,  the  enchantress,  had  set 
her  snare  in  the  guise  of  a  pretty  girl. 

For  it  was  undeniably  a  pretty  face  that  was  lifted 
to  his  when  a  young  lady,  detaching  herself  from  the 
living  torrent  that  delayed  him  for  a  few  seconds  on 
the  pavement,  appealed  for  information. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  how  I  can  ascertain  the 
berth  of  the  yacht  Sans  Souci?"  she  asked. 

7 


The  Message 

It  has  been  seen  that  he  was  glib  enough  of  speech, 
yet  now  he  was  tongue-tied.  In  the  very  instant  that 
the  girl  put  forward  her  simple  request,  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  swarthy  features  of  a  Portuguese  free- 
booter known  to  him  as  the  greatest  among  the  many 
scoundrels  infesting  the  hinterland  of  Nigeria.  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  man.  The  Panama  hat,  spotless 
linen,  fashionable  suit  and  glossy  boots  of  a  typical 
visitor  to  Cowes  certainly  offered  strong  contrast  to  the 
soiled  garb  of  the  balked  slave-trader  whom  he  had 
driven  out  of  a  burning  and  blood-bespattered  African 
village  a  brief  year  earlier.  But,  on  that  occasion, 
Arthur  Warden  had  gazed  steadily  at  Miguel  Figuero 
along  the  barrel  of  a  revolver;  under  such  circumstances 
one  does  not  forget. 

For  a  little  space,  then,  the  Englishman's  imagina- 
tion wandered  far  afield.  Instinctively  he  raised  his 
hat  as  he  turned  to  the  girl  and  repeated  her  concluding 
words. 

"The  Sans  Souci,  did  you  say?" 
"Yes,  a  steam-yacht  —  Mr.  Baumgartner's." 
She  paused.     Though  Warden  was  listening  now, 
his  wits  were  still  wool-gathering.     His  subconscious 
judgment  was  weighing  Figuero's  motives  in  coming 
to  England,  and,  of  all  places,  to  Cowes.     Of  the  many 
men  he  had  encountered  during  an   active  life  this 
inland  pirate  was  absolutely  the  last  he  would  expect 
to  meet  during  Regatta  Week  in  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

The  girl,  half  aware  of  his  obsession,  became  con- 
fused—  even  a  trifle  resentful. 

8 


Derelicts 

"I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  she  went  on  nervously. 
"I  had  no  idea  there  would  be  such  a  crowd,  and  I 
spoke  to  you  because  —  because  you  looked  as  if  you 
might  know " 

Then  he  recovered  his  self-possession,  and  proceeded 
to  surprise  her. 

"I  do  know,"  he  broke  in  hurriedly.  "Pray  allow 
me  to  apologize.  The  sun  was  in  my  eyes,  and  he 
permits  no  competition.  Against  him,  even  you  would 
dazzle  in  vain.  To  make  amends,  let  me  take  you  to 
the  Sans  Souci,  She  is  moored  quite  close  to  my 
cutter,  and  my  dinghy  is  not  fifty  yards  distant." 

The  girl  drew  back  a  little.  This  offer  of  service 
was  rather  too  prompt,  while  its  wording  was  peculiar, 
to  say  the  least.  She  was  so  good-looking  that  young 
men  were  apt  to  place  themselves  unreservedly  at  her 
disposal  without  reference  to  sun,  moon,  or  stars. 

"I  think  I  would  prefer  to  hire  a  boat,"  she  said 
coldly.  "I  should  explain  that  an  officer  on  board 
the  steamer  told  me  I  ought  to  discover  the  whereabouts 
of  the  yacht  before  starting,  or  the  boatman  would  take 
me  out  of  my  way  and  overcharge." 

"Exactly.  That  officer's  name  was  Solomon.  Now, 
I  propose  to  take  you  straight  there  for  nothing.  Come 
with  me  as  far  as  the  quay.  One  glance  at  Peter  will 
restore  the  confidence  you  have  lost  in  me." 

Then  he  smiled,  and  a  woman  can  interpret  a  man's 
smile  with  almost  uncanny  prescience.  The  whiff  of 
pique  blew  away,  and  she  temporized. 

"Is  the  Sans  Souci  a  long  way  out?" 
9 


The  Message 

"Nearly  a  mile.  And  look!  We  can  eat  these 
while  Peter  toils." 

He  opened  the  paper  bag  and  showed  her  the  peaches. 
She  laughed  lightly.  Were  she  a  Frenchwoman  she 
would  have  said,  "But,  sir,  you  are  droll."  Being 
English,  she  came  to  the  point. 

"Where  is  the  quay  you  speak  of?" 

"Here.     Close  at  hand." 

As  they  walked  off  together  she  discovered  out  of 
the  corner  of  her  eye  that  his  glance  was  searching  the 
thinning  mob  of  her  fellow  passengers.  She  guessed 
that  he  had  recognized  some  person  unexpectedly. 

"Are  you  sure  I  am  not  trespassing  on  your  time?" 
she  demanded. 

"Quite  sure.  When  I  said  the  sun  was  in  my  eyes 
I  used  poetic  license.  I  meant  the  West  African  sun. 
A  man  who  arrived  on  your  steamer  reminded  me  of 
Nigeria  —  where  we  —  er  —  became  acquainted." 

"There!  You  want  to  speak  to  him,  of  course," 
and  she  halted  suddenly. 

He  smiled  again,  and  held  out  the  bag. 

"He  is  a  Portuguese  gin-trader  —  and  worse.  And 
he  is  gone.  Would  you  have  me  run  after  him  and 
offer  peaches  that  were  meant  for  you  ? " 

"But  that  is  ridiculous." 

"Most  certainly." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  How  could  you  possibly  have 
provided  peaches  for  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  Ask  the  fairies  who  arrange  these 
things.  Ten  minutes  ago  I  had  no  more  notion  of 

10 


Derelicts 

buying  fruit  than  of  buying  an  aeroplane.  Ten  min- 
utes ago  you  and  I  had  never  met.  Yet  here  we  are, 
you  and  I  and  the  luscious  four.  And  there  is  Peter, 
sailing  master,  cook,  and  general  factotem  of  the 
Nancy  cutter.  Don't  you  think  Peter's  wooden  leg 
induces  trust  ?  He  calls  it  a  prop,  which  suggests  both 
moral  and  physical  support.  By  the  way,  have  you 
ever  noticed  that  wooden-legged  men  are  invariably 
fat  ?  And  Caesar  vouched  for  the  integrity  of  fat  men." 

Though  the  girl  began  to  find  his  chatter  agreeable, 
she  was  secretly  dismayed  when  she  compared  the 
gigantic  Peter  with  the  diminutive  dinghy.  She  had 
never  before  seen  so  broad  a  man  or  so  small  a  boat. 
But  she  had  grit,  and  was  unwilling  to  voice  her  doubt. 

"Will  it  hold  us?"  she  inquired  with  apparent 
unconcern. 

"Oh,  yes.  When  Peter  was  a  pilot  that  little  craft 
carried  him  and  his  two  mates  through  many  a  heavy 
sea.  Don't  be  afraid.  We  will  put  you  safely  on 
board  the  Sans  Souci.  Now,  you  sit  there  and  hold 
the  bag.  I'll  take  my  two  at  once,  please,  as  I  find 
room  forrard." 

"Not  much  of  a  breeze  for  cruisin',  Mr.  Warden," 
grinned  Peter,  casting  an  appreciative  eye  over  the 
latest  addition  to  the  Nancy's  muster-roll. 

"We're  not  bound  for  a  cruise,  Peter,  worse  luck," 
said  Warden.  "The  young  lady  wishes  to  reach  that 
big  yacht  moored  abreast  of  the  cutter.  So  give  way, 
O  heart  of  oak!  Thou  wert  christened  stone,  yet  a 
good  name  is  rather  to  be  chosen  than  great  riches." 

11 


The  Message 

Peter  winked  solemnly  at  the  fair  unknown. 

"He  do  go  on,  don't  he,  miss  ?"  he  said. 

The  girl  nodded,  for  ripe  peach  is  an  engrossing 
fruit.  She  was  enjoying  her  little  adventure.  It 
savored  of  romance.  Already  her  slight  feeling  of  ner- 
vousness had  vanished.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she 
hoped  that  Mr.  Warden  might  prove  to  be  a  friend 
of  the  Baumgartners. 

Under  Peter's  powerful  strokes  the  dinghy  sped 
rapidly  into  the  open  waters  of  the  Solent.  At  that 
hour  there  was  but  slight  stir  in  the  roadstead.  Every- 
body afloat  seemed  to  be  eating.  Each  launch  and 
yacht  they  passed  held  a  luncheon  party  beneath  awn- 
ings or  in  a  deck  saloon.  Through  the  golden  stillness 
came  the  pleasant  notes  of  a  band  playing  in  the  grounds 
of  the  clubhouse.  A  bugle  sounded  faint  and  shrill 
from  the  deck  of  a  distant  warship.  Sitting  in  this 
cockleshell  of  a  craft,  so  near  the  glistening  water  that 
one  might  trail  both  hands  in  it,  was  vastly  agreeable 
after  a  long  journey  by  rail  and  steamer.  From  sea 
level  the  girl  obtained  an  entirely  different  picture  of 
Cowes  and  the  Solent  from  that  glimpsed  from  the 
throbbing  ferry-boat.  The  sea  appeared  to  have  risen, 
the  wooded  hills  and  clusters  of  houses  to  have  sunk 
bodily.  Already  the  shore  was  curiously  remote.  A 
sense  of  brooding  peace  fell  on  her  like  a  mantle.  She 
sighed,  and  wondered  why  she  was  so  content. 

Peter's  airy  summary  of  his  master's  habits  seemed 
to  have  cast  a  spell  on  their  tongues.  For  fully  five 
minutes  no  one  spoke.  The  wondrous  silence  was 

i* 


Derelicts 

broken  only  by  the  rhythmical  clank  of  the  oars,  the 
light  plash  of  the  boat's  movement,  the  strains  of  a 
waltz  from  the  Castle  lawn,  and  the  musical  laughter 
of  women  from  the  yachts. 

Owing  to  the  shortness  of  the  dinghy,  and  the  fact 
that  the  girl  faced  Warden,  with  Peter  intervening,  the 
two  younger  people  were  compelled  to  look  at  each 
other  occasionally.  The  man  saw  a  sweetly  pretty 
face  dowered  with  a  rare  conjunction  of  myosotis  blue 
eyes  and  purple  eyelashes,  and  crowned  with  a  mass 
of  dark  brown  hair.  Accent,  manner,  and  attire  be- 
spoke good  breeding.  She  was  dressed  well,  though 
simply,  in  blue  canvas.  Being  somewhat  of  an  artist, 
he  did  not  fail  to  note  that  her  hat,  blouse,  gloves  and 
boots,  though  probably  inexpensive,  harmonized  in 
brown  tints.  She  was  young,  perhaps  twenty-two. 
Guessing  at  random,  he  imagined  her  the  daughter  of 
some  country  rector,  and,  from  recent  observation  of 
the  Baumgartners,  eked  out  by  their  public  repute,  he 
admitted  a  certain  sentiment  of  surprise  that  such 
blatant  parvenus  should  be  on  her  visiting  list. 

For  her  part,  the  girl  had  long  since  discovered  that 
her  self-appointed  guide  was  an  army  man.  West 
Africa  gave  a  hint  of  foreign  service  that  was  borne  out 
by  a  paleness  beneath  the  tan  of  the  yachtsman.  A 
regimental  mess,  too,  is  a  university  in  itself,  conferring 
a  well-defined  tone,  a  subtle  distinctiveness.  Each 
line  of  his  sinewy  frame  told  of  drill,  and  his  rather 
stern  face  was  eloquent  of  one  accustomed  to  command. 

These  professional  hall-marks  were  not  lost  on  her. 
13 


The  Message 

She  had  mixed  in  circles  where  they  were  recognized. 
And  she  was  prepared  to  like  him.  In  her  woman's 
phrase,  she  thought  it  was  "nice  of  him"  not  to  ques- 
tion her.  She  was  quite  sure  that  if  they  met  again 
ashore  that  afternoon  he  would  leave  her  the  option 
of  renewing  or  dropping  their  acquaintance  as  she 
thought  fit.  Yet,  for  one  so  ready  of  speech  after  the 
first  awkward  moment  outside  the  steamer  pier,  it  was 
surprising  that  he  should  now  be  so  taciturn. 

When  he  did  address  her,  he  kept  strictly  to  the 
purpose  of  their  expedition. 

"That  is  the  San  Souci,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  large 
white  yacht  in  the  distance.  "A  splendid  vessel. 
Built  on  the  Clyde,  I  believe?" 

"Ay,  three  hunnerd  tons,  an'  good  for  ten  knots  in 
any  or'nary  sea,"  put  in  Peter. 

"You  know  her,  of  course?"  went  on  Warden. 

"No.     I  have  never  before  set  eyes  on  her." 

"Well,  you  will  enjoy  your  visit  all  the  more,  per- 
haps. From  last  night's  indications,  you  should  have 
plenty  of  amusement  on  board." 

"Are  there  many  people  there,  then?" 

"I  am  not  sure.  The  owners  gave  a  big  dinner 
party  yesterday.  The  launch  was  coming  and  going 
at  all  hours." 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked  inconsequently,  indicat- 
ing with  a  glance  a  small  round  object  bobbing  merrily 
westward  some  few  yards  away. 

"It  is  difficult  to  say.  Looks  like  a  float  broken 
loose  from  a  fishing  net,"  said  Warden. 

14 


Derelicts 

"No,  sir,  it  ain't  that,"  pronounced  Peter.  "Nets 
have  corks  an'  buoys,  an'  that  ain't  neether." 

"You  may  think  it  absurd,"  cried  the  girl,  "yet  I 
fancied  just  now  that  I  caught  a  resemblance  to  a  face, 
a  distorted  black  face;  but  it  has  turned  round." 

The  boatman  lay  on  his  oars,  and  they  all  looked  at 
the  dancing  yellow  ball  hurrying  to  the  open  sea. 

"At  first  sight  it  suggests  a  piratical  pumpkin,"  said 
Warden. 

"But  I  have  been  watching  it  quite  a  long  time,  and 
I  am  certain  it  is  black  on  the  other  side.  There! 
Surely  I  am  not  mistaken.  And  the  people  on  that 
yacht  have  seen  it,  too." 

The  girl's  face  flushed  with  excitement.  The  thing 
had  really  startled  her,  and  the  two  men  were  ready  to 
agree  that  it  now  presented  a  mask-like  visage,  more 
than  half  submerged,  as  it  swirled  about  in  a  chance 
eddy.  That  some  loungers  on  a  yacht  close  at  hand 
had  also  noticed  it  was  made  evident  by  their  haste  to 
run  down  a  gangway  into  a  boat  fastened  along- 
side. 

"After  it,  Peter!"  cried  Warden.  "It  is  the  lady's 
trover  by  the  law  of  the  high  seas.  Bend  your  back  for 
the  honor  of  the  Nancy.  Port  a  bit  —  port.  Steady 
all.  Keep  her  there." 

In  her  eagerness,  the  girl  tried  to  rise  to  her  feet. 

"Sit  still,  miss,"  growled  Peter,  laboring  mightily. 
"Judging  by  the  position  of  that  other  craft,  an'  from 
wot  I  know  of  Mr.  Warden,  there'll  be  a  devil  of  a 
bump  in  'arf  a  tick." 

15 


The  Message 

"Starboard  a  point,"  cooed  Warden,  on  his  knees 
in  the  bows.  "Steady  as  she  goes." 

Suddenly  he  sprang  upright. 

"Hard  a-starboard ! "  he  shouted,  and  leaped  over- 
board. 

A  yell  from  the  opposing  boat,  a  scream  from  the 
girl,  a  sharp  crack  as  an  oar-blade  snapped  against  the 
sturdy  ribs  of  the  dinghy,  and  the  two  boats  shot  past 
each  other,  Peter's  prompt  obedience  to  orders  having 
averted  a  collision. 

"My  godfather!"  he  roared,  "'e  'ad  to  jump  for  it. 
But  don't  you  worry,  miss  —  'e  can  swim  like  a  herrin'." 

Nevertheless,  the  girl  did  worry,  as  her  white  face 
and  straining  eyes  well  showed.  Peter  swung  the 
dinghy  about  so  nimbly  that  she  lost  all  sense  of  direc- 
tion. It  seemed  as  if  the  laughing  Solent  had  swallowed 
Warden,  and  she  gazed  affrightedly  on  every  side  but 
the  right  one. 

"Oh,  how  could  he  do  it?"  she  wailed.  "I  shall 
never  forgive  myself — " 

Then  she  heard  a  deep  breath  from  the  water  behind 
her,  and  she  turned  to  see  Warden,  with  blood  stream- 
ing from  a  gash  across  his  forehead,  swimming  easily 
with  one  hand.  She  whisked  round  and  knelt  on  the 
seat. 

"Quick!"  she  cried.  "Come  close.  I  can  hold 
you." 

"Please  do  not  be  alarmed  on  my  account,"  he  said 
coolly.  "I  fear  I  look  rather  ghastly,  but  the  injury 
is  nothing,  a  mere  glancing  blow  from  an  oar." 

16 


Derelicts 

Even  in  her  unnerved  condition  she  could  not  fail  to 
realize  that  he  was  in  no  desperate  plight.  But  she 
was  very  frightened,  and  grasped  his  wrist  tenaciously 
when  his  fingers  rested  on  the  stern  rail.  Yet,  even 
under  such  trying  circumstances,  she  was  helpful. 
Though  half  sobbing,  and  utterly  distressed,  she  dipped 
her  handkerchief  in  the  water  and  stooped  until  she 
could  wash  the  wound  sufficiently  to  reveal  its  extent. 
He  was  right.  The  skin  was  broken,  but  the  cut  had 
no  depth. 

"Why  did  you  behave  so  madly?"  she  asked  with 
quivering  lips. 

"It  was  method,  not  madness,  fair  maid,"  he  said, 
smiling  up  at  her.  "  Our  opponents  had  four  oars  and 
a  light  skiff  against  Peter's  two  and  a  dinghy  that  is 
broad  as  it  is  long.  To  equalize  the  handicap  I  had 
to  jump,  else  you  would  have  lost  your  trophy.  By 
the  way,  here  it  is!" 

With  his  disengaged  hand  he  gave  her  a  smooth, 
highly  polished  oval  object  which  proved  to  be  a  good 
deal  larger  than  it  looked  when  afloat.  The  girl  threw 
it  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  without  paying  the  least 
heed  to  it.  She  was  greatly  flurried,  and,  womanlike, 
wanted  to  box  Warden's  ears  for  his  absurd  action. 

"You  have  terrified  me  out  of  my  wits,"  she  gasped. 
"Can  you  manage  to  climb  on  board?" 

"That  would  be  difficult  —  perhaps  dangerous. 
Peter,  pull  up  to  the  nearest  ship's  ladder.  Then  I 
can  regain  my  perch  forrard." 

But  Peter  was  gazing  with  an  extraordinary  expres- 
17 


The  Message 

sion  of  awe,  almost  of  fear,  at  the  unusual  cause  of  so 
much  commotion. 

"Well,  sink  me!"  he  muttered,  "if  that  ain't  Ole 
Nick's  own  himmidge,  it's  his  head  stoker's.  I've 
never  seen  anything  like  it,  no,  not  in  all  my  born  days. 
My  aunt!  It's  ugly  enough  to  cause  a  riot." 


18 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW  THE   MESSAGE   WAS   DELIVERED 

OWING  to  the  return  of  the  rival  boat,  Peter's  agita- 
tion passed  unnoticed.  A  superior  person  was  apolo- 
gizing for  the  accident,  though  inclined  to  tax  Warden 
with  foolhardiness. 

"You  have  only  yourself  to  blame  for  that  knock  on 
the  head,  which  might  have  been  far  more  serious  than 
it  is,"  he  said. 

"Will  you  kindly  go  to  —  Jericho?"  said  the  man 
in  the  water. 

The  superior  person's  tone  grew  more  civil  when  he 
found  that  he  was  talking  to  one  whom  he  condescended 
to  regard  as  an  equal. 

"Don't  you  want  any  assistance?"  he  inquired. 

"No,  thanks,  unless  you  will  allow  me  to  use  your 
gangway  in  order  to  climb  aboard  the  dinghy." 

"By  all  means.  I  am  sorry  the  oar  caught  you. 
But  you  annexed  the  prize,  so  I  suppose  you  are  satis- 
fied. What  was  it?" 

"A  calabash,  I  fancy.  You  will  see  it  lying  in  the 
boat." 

Peter,  who  was  really  fascinated  by  the  carved  face 
which  drew  the  girl's  attention  in  the  first  instance, 

19 


The  Message 

suddenly  kicked  it  and  turned  it  upside  down  with  his 
wooden  leg.  The  men  in  the  second  boat  saw  only 
the  glazed  yellow  rind  of  an  oval  gourd,  some  twelve 
inches  long  and  eight  or  nine  in  diameter. 

"The  pot  was  hardly  worth  the  scurry,"  laughed 
one  of  them. 

"If  Greeks  once  strove  for  a  crown  of  wild  olive, 
why  not  Englishmen  for  a  calabash?"  said  Warden. 

There  was  an  element  of  the  ludicrous  in  the  unex- 
pected comment  from  a  man  in  his  predicament. 
Every  true-born  Briton  resents  any  remark  that  he 
does  not  quite  understand,  and  some  among  the 
strangers  grinned.  The  girl,  still  holding  Warden's 
wrist  as  though  she  feared  he  would  vanish  in  the 
depths  if  she  let  go,  darted  a  scornful  look  at  them. 

"The  truth  is  that  these  gentlemen  competed  because 
they  thought  they  were  sure  to  win,"  she  cried. 

"It  was  a  fair  race,  madam,"  expostulated  the 
leader  of  the  yacht's  boat. 

"Y-yes,"  she  admitted.  "My  presence  equalized 
matters." 

As  the  men  were  four  to  two  she  scored  distinctly. 

"Give  way,  Peter,"  said  Warden.  "If  I  laugh  I 
shall  swallow  more  salt  water  than  is  good  for  me." 

He  was  soon  seated  astride  the  bows  of  the  dinghy, 
which  Peter's  strong  arms  brought  quickly  alongside 
the  Sans  Souci.  By  that  time,  the  girl's  composure 
was  somewhat  restored.  Warden  obviously  made  so 
light  of  his  ducking  that  she  did  not  allude  to  it  again. 
As  for  the  gourd,  it  rested  at  her  feet,  but  she  seemed 

20 


How  the  Message  was  Delivered 

to  have  lost  all  interest  in  it.  In  truth,  she  was  an- 
noyed with  herself  for  having  championed  her  new 
friend's  cause,  and  thus,  in  a  sense,  condoned  his 
folly. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  the  Sans  Souci's  deck  was 
singularly  untenanted,  until  a  gruff  voice  hailed  the 
occupants  of  the  dinghy  from  the  top  of  the  gangway. 

"Below  there,"  came  the  cry.  "Wotcher  want 
here?" 

The  girl  looked  up  with  a  flash  of  surprise  in  her 
expressive  face.  But  she  answered  instantly: 

"I  am  Miss  Evelyn  Dane,  and  I  wish  to  see  Mrs. 
Baumgartner." 

"She's  ashore,"  was  the  reply. 

"Well,  I  must  wait  until  she  returns." 

"You  can't  wait  here." 

"But  that  is  nonsense.  I  have  come  from  Oxford- 
shire at  her  request." 

"It  don't  matter  tuppence  where  you've  come  from. 
No  one  is  allowed  aboard.  Them's  my  orders." 

Miss  Dane  turned  bewildered  eyes  on  Warden. 

"How  can  one  reason  with  a  surly  person  like  this  ?" 
she  asked. 

"He  is  incapable  of  reason  —  he  wants  a  hiding," 
said  Warden. 

A  bewhiskered  visage  of  the  freak  variety  glared 
down  at  him. 

"Does  he,  you  swob,"  roared  the  apparition,  "an* 
oo's  goin'  to  give  it  'im?" 

"/  am.  Take  this  lady  to  the  saloon,  and  come 
21 


The  Message 

with  me  to  the  cutter  yonder.     My  man  will  bring 
you  to  your  bunk  in  five  minutes,  or  even  less." 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Mr.  Warden,  do  not  make  my 
ridiculous  position  worse,"  cried  the  girl,  reddening 
with  annoyance.  "Mrs.  Baumgartner  wrote  and 
urged  me  to  see  her  without  any  delay  on  board  this 
yacht.  I  telegraphed  her  early  this  morning  saying  I 
would  be  here  soon  after  midday.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"If  I  were  you,  I  would  go  back  to  Oxfordshire," 
he  said. 

'*  But  I  cannot  —  at  least,  not  until  I  have  spoken 
to  her.  I  am  —  poor.  I  am  practically  engaged  as 
companion  —  another  name  for  governess,  I  suspect  — 
to  Mrs.  Baumgartner's  daughter,  and  I  dare  not  throw 
away  the  chance  of  obtaining  a  good  situation." 

Warden,  who  was  dabbing  his  forehead  with  a 
handkerchief,  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  Evelyn  Dane, 
in  her  distress,  little  guessed  the  irrational  conceit  that 
danced  in  his  brain  just  then.  But  the  presence  of 
Peter,  and  the  torrent  of  sarcastic  objurgation  that 
flowed  from  the  guardian  of  the  Sans  Souci,  imposed 
restraint.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  suggest 
that,  under  the  conditions,  it  would  be  a  capital  notion 
if  they  got  married,  and  took  a  honeymoon  cruise  in 
the  Nancy  I  —  Long  afterward  he  wondered  what 
would  have  been  the  outcome  of  any  such  fantastic 
proposal.  Would  she  have  listened?  At  any  rate,  it 
amused  him  at  the  time  to  think  that  there  was  little 
difference  between  a  lover  and  a  lunatic. 

But  he  contented  himself  with  saying: 
22 


How  the  Message  was  Delivered 

"I  fear  I  am  rather  light-headed  to-day,  Miss  Dane. 
Let  us  appeal  to  Peter  the  solid,  and  draw  upon  his 
wide  experience.  Tell  us  then,  O  pilot,  what  course 
shall  we  shape?" 

Peter,  rapidly  restored  to  the  normal  by  the  familiar 
language  coming  from  the  rail  of  the  yacht,  glanced  up. 

"If  I  was  you,  sir,  I'd  ax  monkey-face  there  wot 
time  'is  missis  was  due  aboard.  Mebbe  the  young 
leddy  would  find  her  bearin's  then,  so  to  speak." 

"Excellent.  Do  you  hear,  Cerberus?  When  does 
Mrs.  Baumgartner  return?" 

The  watchman,  taking  thought,  decided  to  suspend 
his  taunts. 

"Why  didn't  you  ax  me  that  at  fust?"  he  growled. 
"I'm  on'y  obeyin'  orders.  Seven  o'clock,  they  said. 
An'  it  didn't  matter  'oo  kem  here,  if  it  was  the  Pope  o' 
Rome  hisself,  it's  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth  to  let 
him  aboard." 

"That  is  final,  Miss  Dane,"  said  Warden.  "There 
are  two  alternatives  before  you.  I  can  either  gag  and 
bind  the  person  who  has  just  spoken,  thus  securing  by 
force  your  admission  to  the  yacht,  or  I  can  entertain 
you  on  the  Nancy  until  seven  o'clock." 

"But  I  ought  to  go  ashore." 

"It  is  not  to  be  dreamed  of,  I  assure  you.  Cowes  is 
overrun  with  excursionists.  You  will  be  much  hap- 
pier with  Peter  and  me,  and  we  are  no  mean  cooks 
when  put  on  our  mettle." 

She  yielded  disconsolately.  Dislike  of  the  Sans 
Souci  and  every  one  connected  with  that  palatial 

23 


vessel  was  already  germinating  in  her  mind.  If  it 
were  not  for  the  considerations  outlined  in  her  brief 
statement  to  Warden  she  would  have  caught  the  next 
ferry  to  Portsmouth  and  allowed  Mrs.  Baumgartner 
to  make  other  provision  for  her  daughter's  companion- 
ship, or  tuition. 

"Give  me  a  call  when  you  are  let  off  the  chain,"  said 
Warden  pleasantly  to  the  watchman,  as  the  dinghy 
curved  apart  from  the  yacht's  side. 

The  girl  colored  even  more  deeply.  Such  behavior 
was  not  only  outrageous,  but  it  supplied  a  safety  valve 
for  her  own  ruffled  feelings. 

"I  wish  you  would  not  say  such  stupid  things,"  she 
cried  vehemently.  "What  would  happen  if  that 
wretched  man  took  you  at  your  word  ?  You  would 
be  mixed  up  in  some  horrible  brawl,  and  wholly  on  my 
account." 

"He  will  not  come,  Miss  Dane,"  he  said  sadly. 
"Let  me  explain,  however,  that  I  prodded  his  thick 
hide  with  set  purpose.  He  is  alone  on  the  Sans  Souci; 
he  blustered  because  he  was  afraid  we  meant  to  go 
aboard,  aye  or  nay.  Is  it  not  extraordinary  that  such 
a  vessel  should  be  absolutely  denuded  of  owner,  guests, 
servants,  and  crew  ?  That  man  is  not  a  sailor.  Unless 
I  am  greatly  mistaken,  he  does  not  belong  to  the  yacht 
in  any  capacity.  What  does  it  mean  ?  You  may  take 
it  from  me  that  it  is  unusual,  I  might  almost  say  phe- 
nomenal, for  a  valuable  steam-yacht  in  commission  to 
be  deserted  in  that  manner." 

"But  he  admitted  that  'they,'  meaning  Mr.  and 
24 


How  the  Message  was  Delivered 


Mrs.  Baumgartner,  I  suppose,  would  return  early  this 
evening?" 

"I  am  sure  he  is  right  in  that.  But  where  are  the 
twenty  odd  domestics  and  members  of  the  crew? 
"When  Peter  and  I  went  ashore  at  ten  o'clock  to-day 
the  Sans  Souci  was  alive  with  people." 

"I  only  know  that  Mrs.  Baumgartner  seems  to  have 
been  thoughtless  where  I  am  concerned,"  said  the  girl, 
absorbed  in  her  ow^n  troubles. 

Nevertheless,  she  brightened  considerably  when 
"Warden  assisted  her  to  reach  the  spotless  deck  of  the 
Nancy.  By  dint  of  much  scrubbing  and  polishing, 
that  taut  little  cutter  had  no  reason  to  shirk  the  vivid 
sunlight.  At  the  beginning  of  the  cruise  she  had  been 
fitted  with  a  new  suit  of  sails  and  fresh  cordage.  For 
the  rest,  Peter,  and  Peter's  fourteen-year-old  son 
"Chris,"  roused  now  from  sound  sleep  in  the  cabin 
by  his  father's  loud  summons,  kept  brass  fittings  and 
woodwork  in  a  spick-and-span  condition  that  would 
bear  comparison  with  the  best-found  yacht  in  the 
roadstead. 

Miss  Dane  was  accommodated  with  a  camp  chair 
aft,  while  Warden  dived  into  the  cabin  to  change  his 
clothes.  The  boy,  after  a  wide-eyed  stare  at  his  em- 
ployer, was  about  to  busy  himself  with  tying  up  the 
dinghy,  when  Peter  bade  him  be  off  and  see  to  the  stove 
if  he  wished  to  escape  a  rope-ending.  Chris  was  hurt. 
He  had  not  expected  such  a  greeting  from  his  revered 
parent;  but  he  disappeared  instantly,  and  Peter  imag- 
ined that  his  offspring  was  thus  prevented  from  inves- 

25 


The  Message 

tigating  the  mystery  of  the  gourd,  which  he  took  good 
care  to  leave  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

As  for  the  girl,  her  mind  was  occupied  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  else  by  the  strange  combination  of  events 
that  brought  her  a  guest  on  board  the  Nancy.  She 
was  not  so  much  perturbed  by  the  absence  of  Mrs. 
Baumgartner  as  by  Warden's  manifest  disapproval  of 
the  lady.  A  railway  return  ticket,  sufficient  money  in 
her  purse  to  pay  for  a  room  in  a  hotel,  and  the  existence 
of  a  friend  of  her  mother's  in  Portsmouth,  a  friend 
whose  good  offices  might  be  invoked  if  necessary,  made 
her  independent.  But  she  did  not  want  to  go  back 
defeated  to  Oxfordshire.  Her  father's  carelessness 
had  left  her  practically  at  the  mercy  of  a  step-mother, 
who  enjoyed  the  revenue  of  a  fair  estate  until  death. 
The  settlement  was  not  to  the  liking  of  either  woman, 
and  Evelyn  was  goaded  into  an  endeavor  to  escape 
from  it  by  the  knowledge  that  she  was  regarded  as  an 
interloper  in  a  house  that  would  ultimately  come  into 
her  possession  if  she  survived  the  second  Mrs.  Dane. 

The  well-paid  appointment  offered  by  the  Baum- 
gartners  was  apparently  an  opening  sent  by  the  gods. 
She  had  been  strongly  recommended  for  the  post  by  a 
friend,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason  whatever  why 
it  should  not  prove  an  ideal  arrangement  for  both 
parties.  Yet  Warden,  unmistakably  a  gentleman,  if 
rather  eccentric  in  his  ways,  evidently  did  not  view 
the  mining  magnate's  family  with  favor.  That  was  a 
displeasing  fact.  Though  she  had  no  personal  expe- 
rience of  the  section  of  society  which  dubs  itself  the 

26 


How  the  Message  was  Delivered 

"smart  set,"  she  gathered  that  the  Baumgartners 
belonged  to  it,  and  it  was  a  risky  undertaking  for  a 
young  woman  to  constitute  herself  part  and  parcel  of 
the  household  of  one  of  its  leading  members. 

Her  somewhat  serious  reverie  was  interrupted  by 
the  grateful  scent  of  cooking  that  came  from  a  hidden 
region  forward.  Warden  reappeared  in  dry  clothing. 
The  cut  on  his  forehead  was  covered  with  a  strip  of 
sticking  plaster.  .He  was  bareheaded,  and  a  slight 
powdering  of  gray  in  his  thick  black  hair  made  him 
look  more  than  his  age. 

"Our  glass  and  china  are  of  the  pilot  pattern,"  he 
explained,  placing  a  laden  tray  on  the  deck,  "but  we 
balance  deficiencies  in  these  respects  by  a  high  tone  in 
our  cuisine.  To-day's  luncheon  consists  of  grilled 
chicken  and  bacon,  followed  by  meringues  and  figs, 
while  the  claret  was  laid  down  last  week  in  Plymouth." 

"I  am  so  hungry  that  I  can  almost  dispense  with  the 
glass  and  china,"  she  admitted.  "But  won't  you  let 
me  help  ?  I  am  quite  domesticated." 

"What?  Would  you  rob  the  cook  of  his  glory? 
You  must  eat  and  admire,  and  thank  the  kindly  gales 
that  wafted  Peter  to  the  Indian  Ocean  when  he  was 
putting  in  his  sea  service,  because  he  learned  there  how 
to  use  charcoal  in  the  galley  instead  of  an  abominable 
oil  lamp." 

"I  was  born  in  India,"  she  said  with  delightful  irrel- 
evance. 

"Ah,  were  your  people  in  the  army?" 

"No.  My  father  was  in  the  Indian  Marine.  But 
27 


The  Message 

he  retired  when  I  was  two  years  old  —  soon  after  my 
mother's  death.  I  lost  him  eight  years  later,  and, 
having  lived  thirteen  years  with  a  stepmother,  I 
thought  it  high  time  to  begin  to  earn  my  own  liv- 
ing." 

She  fancied  that  this  brief  biography  might  encourage 
him  to  speak  of  the  Baumgartners,  but  Warden's  con- 
versation did  not  run  on  conventional  lines. 

"I  find  your  career  most  interesting,"  he  said. 
"Now  that  we  know  each  other  so  well  I  want  to  hear 
more  of  you.  Promise  that  you  will  write  every  month 
until  early  December,  and  report  progress  in  your  new 
surroundings.  Here  is  my  card.  A  letter  to  the 
Universities  Club  will  always  reach  me." 

She  read:  —  "Captain  Arthur  Warden,  Deputy 
Commissioner,  Nigeria  Protectorate." 

"Why  must  I  stop  in  December?"  she  asked,  with  a 
smile  and  a  quick  glance  under  her  long  eyelashes. 

"Because  I  return  to  Nigeria  about  that  date,  and  I 
shall  then  supply  a  new  address." 

"Dear  me!  Are  we  arranging  a  regular  corre- 
spondence ?  " 

"Your  effusions  can  be  absolutely  curt.  Just  the 
date  and  locality,  and  the  one  word  'Happy'  or  'Mis- 
erable,' as  the  case  may  be." 

The  arrival  of  Chris  with  a  grilled  chicken  created 
a  diversion.  Peter  had  to  be  summoned  from  the 
galley.  He  explained  sheepishly  that  he  thought  the 
meal  was  of  a  ceremonious  character.  They  feasted 
regally,  and  all  went  well  until  the  unhappy  Chris 

28 


How  the  Message  was  Delivered 

asked  his  father  if  the  vegetable  marrow  was  to  be 
boiled  for  dinner. 

"Wot  marrer?"  demanded  Peter  unguardedly. 

"The  big  one  in  the  dinghy." 

"By  Jove,  we  have  never  given  a  thought  to  the 
calabash  that  created  all  the  rumpus,"  cried  Warden. 
"What  about  that  black  face  you  saw  on  it,  Miss  Dane  ? 
I  didn't  notice  it  afterwards.  Did  you?" 

"No.  I  was  too  excited  and  frightened.  Your  son 
might  bring  it  to  us  now,  Mr.  Evans." 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  miss,  we'll  leave  it  till  you've 
finished  lunch,"  said  Peter,  regarding  Chris  with  an 
eye  that  boded  unutterable  things. 

"But  why,  most  worthy  mariner?"  demanded 
Warden. 

"  'Cos  it's  the  ugliest  phiz  that  ever  grew  on  a  nigger,'* 
was  the  astonishing  answer.  "It  gev'  me  a  fair  turn, 
it  did,  an'  I'm  a  pretty  tough  subjec'.  It's  enough  to 
stop  a  clock.  If  the  young  leddy  takes  my  advice 
she'll  bid  me  heave  it  overboard  and  let  it  go  to  the  — • 
well,  to  where  it  rightly  belongs." 

"It'  s  only  an  old  gourd,"  exclaimed  Evelyn,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other  in  amused  surprise. 

"Peter,"  said  Warden,  laughing,  "you  have  whetted 
our  curiosity  with  rare  skill.  Come,  now.  What  is 
the  joke?" 

"I'm  in  reel  earnest,  sir  —  sink  me  if  I  ain't.  It's 
—  a  terror,  that's  wot  it  is." 

"Bless  my  soul,  produce  it,  and  let  us  examine  this 
calabash  of  parts." 

29 


The  Message 

"Not  me!"  growled  Peter,  hauling  himself  upright 
with  amazing  rapidity.  "Believe  me,  sir,  I  'ope  you 
won't  'ave  the  thing  aboard  the  Nancy.  Get  forrard, 
you,"  he  went  on,  glaring  at  the  open-mouthed  Chris. 
"Start  washin'  them  plates,  an'  keep  yer  silly  mouth 
closed,  or  you'll  catch  somethin'  you  can't  eat." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  usually  placid  and 
genial-spoken  Peter  was  greatly  perturbed.  To  avoid 
further  questioning,  he  stumped  off  to  his  quarters  in 
the  fore  part  of  the  cutter,  and  swung  himself  out  of 
sight,  while  the  girl  endeavored  vainly  to  estimate  how 
he  could  squeeze  his  huge  bulk  through  so  small  a 
hatchway. 

Warden  also  stood  up. 

"After  that  there  is  but  one  course  open  to  us,"  he 
said,  and  drew  in  the  dinghy's  painter  until  he  was 
able  to  secure  the  gourd. 

He  was  on  his  knees  when  he  lifted  it  in  both  hands 
and  turned  it  round  to  ascertain  what  it  was  that  had 
so  upset  his  stout  friend.  In  reviewing  his  first  im- 
pressions subsequently,  he  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  close  familiarity  with  the  features  of  the  West 
African  negro  must  have  blunted  his  mind  to  the  true 
significance  of  the  hideous  face  that  scowled  at  him 
from  the  rounded  surface  of  the  calabash.  He  paid 
heed  only  to  the  excellence  of  the  artist  —  none  to  the 
message  of  undying  hatred  of  every  good  impulse  in 
mankind  that  was  conveyed  by  the  frowning  brows, 
the  cruel  mouth,  the  beady,  snake-like  eyes  peeping 
through  narrow  slits  cut  in  the  outer  rind.  Were  not 

30 


How  the  Message  was  Delivered 

the  lineaments  those  of  a  pure  negro,  he  would  have 
imagined  that  some  long-forgotten  doyen  of  the  Satsuma 
school  had  amused  himself  by  concentrating  in  a  human 
face  all  that  is  grotesque  and  horrible  in  the  Japanese 
notion  of  a  demon.  But  there  was  no  doubting  the 
identity  of  the  racial  type  depicted.  Warden  could 
even  name  the  very  tribe  that  supplied  the  model. 
A  curious  crinkled  ring  that  had  formed  round  the 
gourd  near  the  upper  part  of  its  egg-shaped  circum- 
ference suggested  the  quoit-shaped  ivory  ornament 
worn  by  the  men  of  Oku.  Oku  used  to  be  a  plague 
spot  in  West  Africa.  It  is  little  better  to-day,  but  its 
virus  is  dissipated  by  British  rule. 

Warden's  kindling  glance  soon  detected  other  im- 
portant details.  The  raised  ring,  and  certain  rough 
protuberances  that  might  have  borne  a  crude  likeness 
to  a  man's  face  when  the  gourd  was  in  its  natural  state, 
were  utilized  with  almost  uncanny  ingenuity  to  lend 
high  relief  to  the  carving.  Indeed,  the  surface  had 
been  but  slightly  scored  with  the  artist's  knife.  Half- 
lowered  eyelids,  a  suggestion  of  parted  lips  and  broad 
nostrils,  some  deep  creases  across  the  brutish  forehead, 
and  a  sinister  droop  to  each  corner  of  the  mouth  — 
these  deft  touches  revealed  at  once  the  sculptor's 
restraint  and  power.  The  black  skin  was  simulated 
by  a  smooth  and  shining  lacquer,  the  ivory  ring  by  a 
scraping  of  the  rind  that  laid  bare  the  yellow  pith. 
No  characteristic  was  over-accentuated.  The  work 
offered  a  rare  instance  of  the  art  that  conceals  art. 

And  Warden  felt  that  none  but  an  artist  worthy  to 
31 


rank  with  the  elect  could  have  conceived  and  carried 
out  this  study  of  some  fierce  negro  despot.  That  it 
was  a  genuine  portrait  he  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  in  its  creation  hate  and  fear  had 
gone  hand  in  hand  with  marvelous  craftsmanship. 
The  man  who  exercised  such  cunning  on  the  inferior 
material  provided  by  a  rough-coated  calabash  was  not 
only  inspired  by  the  pride  of  conscious  power  but 
meant  to  leave  an  imperishable  record  of  a  savage 
tyrant  in  his  worst  aspect.  A  great  Italian  painter, 
limning  his  idea  of  the  Last  Judgment,  gratified  his 
spite  by  placing  all  his  enemies  among  the  legion  of  the 
lost.  This  unknown  master  had  taken  a  more  subtle 
revenge.  It  was  possible  that  the  black  chief,  had  he 
seen  it,  would  have  admired  his  counterfeit  present- 
ment. It  demanded  a  more  cultured  intelligence  than 
Oku  society  conferred  to  enable  him  to  appreciate  how 
plainly  an  evil  soul  leered  from  out  a  dreadful  mask. 

In  no  respect  was  the  truth  of  the  image  more  con- 
vincing than  in  the  treatment  of  the  eyes.  A  minute 
mosaic  of  chalcedony  was  used  to  portray  white  and 
iris  and  cornea.  Small  pieces  of  clear  crystal  formed 
the  pupils,  and  the  rays  of  light  glinted  from  their 
depths  with  an  effect  that  was  appalling  in  its  realism. 
Thus  might  the  eyes  of  a  cobra  sparkle  with  vindictive 
fire.  They  exercised  a  diabolical  mesmerism.  War- 
den, rapt  in  his  admiration  of  a  genuine  work  of  art, 
remained  wholly  unconscious  of  their  spell  till  he  heard 
a  faint  gasp  of  horror  from  the  girl. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  in  quick  dismay.  All 
32 


How  the  Message  was  Delivered 

the  roses  had  fled  from  her  cheeks,  leaving  her  wan 
indeed.  Her  own  fine  eyes  were  distended  with  fright. 
She,  like  Peter  Evans,  gave  no  heed  to  the  consummate 
skill  of  the  designer.  She  was  fascinated  at  once  by 
that  basilisk  glare.  It  thrilled  her  to  the  core,  threat- 
ened her  with  immeasurable  wrongs,  menaced  her  with 
the  spite  of  a  demon. 

"This  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  its  kind  I  have 
ever  seen,"  said  Warden  eagerly. 

Though  he  was  not  yet  awakened  to  the  magnetic 
influence  exercised  by  the  vile  visage  he  could  not  fail 
to  note  the  girl's  consternation.  He  thought  to  re- 
assure her  by  pointing  out  the  marvelous  craft  dis- 
played in  its  contriving. 

"It  is  amazing  in  every  sense,"  he  went  on,  bringing 
the  gourd  nearer  for  her  inspection.  "Although  the 
calabash  is  of  a  variety  unknown  in  West  Africa,  the 
face  gives  a  perfect  likeness  of  an  Oku  chief.  There 
is  a  man  in  Oku  now  who  might  have  sat  to  the  sculptor, 
though  he  is  far  from  possessing  the  power,  the  tre- 
mendous strength,  of  the  original.  Yet  it  seems  to 
me  to  be  very  old.  I  cannot,  for  the  life  of  me " 

A  loud  crash  interrupted  him.  Chris,  removing  the 
remains  of  the  feast,  had  gazed  for  an  instant  at  the 
astounding  object  in  Warden's  hands.  The  boy 
backed  away,  and  tripped  over  a  coil  of  rope,  with 
disastrous  result  to  the  crockery  he  was  carrying. 

Warden's  voice,  no  less  than  the  laugh  with  which 
he  greeted  Chris's  discomfiture,  restored  the  poise  of 
the  girl's  wits. 

33 


The  Message 

"You  obtained  that  for  me,  did  you  not?"  she  cried 
with  a  curious  agitation. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  he. 

"Then  give  it  to  me,  please." 

He  was  certainly  surprised,  but  passed  the  gourd  to 
her  without  further  comment.  She  half  averted  her 
eyes,  took  it  unhesitatingly,  and  tried  to  pitch  it  into 
the  water.  For  its  size,  it  was  astonishingly  light. 
Were  it  as  heavy  as  she  imagined,  it  must  have  dropped 
into  the  Solent  several  yards  from  the  vessel.  As  it 
was,  it  flew  unexpectedly  high,  struck  a  rope,  and  fell 
back  on  deck,  whence  it  bounded,  with  the  irregular1 
bounce  of  a  Rugby  football,  right  into  Warden's  hands 
again. 

"That  was  a  mad  trick,"  he  said  almost  angrily. 

"Oh,  please,  throw  it  away,"  she  pleaded. 

"Throw  away  a  rare  and  valuable  curio!     Why?" 

"Because  it  will  bring  you  nothing  but  ruin  and 
misery.  Can  you  not  see  its  awful  meaning?  Throw 
it  away,  I  implore  you!" 

"But  that  would  be  a  crime,  the  act  of  a  Vandal. 
It  may  be  the  chiefest  treasure  of  a  connoisseur's  col- 
lection. Would  you  have  me  ape  some  fanatic  Mus- 
sulman hammering  to  atoms  a  statue  by  Phidias?" 

"There  is  no  beauty  in  that  monstrous  thing.  It  is 
—  bewitched." 

"Oh  really,  Miss  Dane  —  we  are  in  England,  in 
the  twentieth  century." 

He  laughed  indulgently,  with  the  air  of  an  elder 
brother  who  had  forgiven  her  for  an  exhibition  of 

34 


How  the  Message  was  Delivered 

pettish  temper.  He  held  out  the  calabash  at  arm's 
length  and  viewed  it  critically.  He  saw  immediately 
that  the  crown  inside  the  ring  was  misplaced. 

"Hello!"  he  muttered,  "you  did  some  damage, 
then!" 

Closer  inspection  revealed  that  the  fall  had  loosened 
a  tightly  fitting  lid  hitherto  concealed  by  the  varnish 
used  as  a  preservative.  He  removed  it,  and  peered 
within. 

"A  document!"  he  announced  elatedly.  "Perhaps, 
after  all,  your  unaccountable  frenzy  was  a  blessing  in 
disguise.  Now,  Miss  Dane,  we  may  learn  what  you 
termed  its  'awful  meaning.'  But,  for  pity's  sake, 
don't  yield  to  impulse  and  rend  the  manuscript.  You 
have  cracked  his  chiefship's  skull  —  I  pray  you  spare 
his  brains." 


35 


CHAPTER  III 

WHEREIN   A   STRONG   MAN   YIELDS  TO    CIRCUMSTANCES 

CURIOSITY,  most  potent  of  the  primal  instincts, 
conquered  the  girl's  fear.  As  it  happened,  Warden 
was  still  kneeling.  He  sat  back  on  his  heels,  rested 
the  calabash  against  his  knees,  and  withdrew  a  strip 
of  dried  skin  from  its  cunningly  devised  hiding-place. 
It  was  so  curled  and  withered  that  it  crackled  beneath 
his  fingers  when  he  tried  to  unfold  it.  Quite  without 
premeditation,  he  had  placed  the  calabash  in  such  wise 
that  the  negro's  features  were  hidden,  and  this  fact 
alone  seemed  to  give  his  companion  confidence. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  watching  his  efforts  to 
persuade  the  twisted  scroll  to  remain  open. 

"Parchment,  and  uncommonly  tough  and  leathery 
at  that." 

He  did  not  look  up.  A  queer  notion  was  forming 
in  his  mind,  and  he  was  unwishful  to  meet  her  eyes 
just  then. 

"It  looks  very  old,"  she  said. 

"A  really  respectable  antique,  I  fancy.  Have  you 
any  pins  —  four,  or  more  ?" 

She  produced  from  a  pocket  a  small  hussif  with  its 
store  of  sewing  accessories. 

36 


Wherein  a  Strong  Man  Yields 

"A  genie  of  the  feminine  order!"  he  cried.  "I  was 
merely  hoping  for  a  supply  of  those  superfluous  pins 
that  used  to  lurk  in  my  sister's  attire  and  only  revealed 
their  presence  when  I  tried  to  reduce  her  to  subjection." 

"Oh,  you  have  a  sister?" 

"Yes  —  married  —  husband  ranching  in  Montana." 

Meanwhile  he  was  fastening  the  refractory  document 
to  the  deck.  With  patience,  helped  by  half  a  dozen 
pins,  he  managed  to  smooth  it  sufficiently  to  permit 
of  detailed  scrutiny.  The  girl,  wholly  interested  now, 
knelt  beside  him.  Any  observer  in  a  passing  boat 
might  have  imagined  that  they  were  engaged  in  some 
profoundly  devotional  exercise.  But  the  planks  were 
hard.  Miss  Dane,  seeing  nothing  but  wrinkled  parch- 
ment, yellow  with  age,  and  covered  with  strange 
scrawls  that  seemed  to  be  more  a  part  of  the  actual 
material  than  written  on  its  surface,  soon  rose. 

"Those  hieroglyphics  are  beyond  my  ken,"  she 
explained. 

"They  are  Arabic,"  said  Warden  —  "Arabic  charac- 
ters, that  is.  The  words  are  Latin  —  at  least  to  some 
extent.  Epistola  Pauli  Hebraicis  has  the  ring  of  old 
Rome  about  it,  even  if  it  wears  the  garb  of  Mahomet." 

He  straightened  himself  suddenly,  and  shouted  for 
Chris  with  such  energy  that  the  girl  was  startled. 

Chris  popped  his  head  out  of  the  fore  hatch,  and  was 
told  to  bring  his  father's  Bible,  for  Peter  read  two  of 
its  seven  hundred  odd  pages  each  day  in  the  year. 

Warden  compared  book  and  scroll  intently  during 
many  minutes.  Miss  Dane  did  not  interrupt.  She 

37 


The  Message 

contented  herself  with  a  somewhat  prolonged  inves- 
tigation of  Warden's  face,  or  so  much  of  it  as  was 
visible.  Then  she  turned  away  and  gazed  at  the  Sans 
Souci,  There  was  a  wistful  look  in  her  eyes.  Per- 
haps she  wished  that  circumstances  had  contrived  to 
exchange  the  yacht  for  the  pilot-boat.  At  any  rate, 
she  was  glad  he  had  a  sister.  If  only  she  had  a  brother ! 
—  just  such  a  one ! 

At  last  the  man's  deep,  rather  curt  voice  broke  the 
silence. 

"I  have  solved  a  part  of  the  puzzle,  Miss  Dane,"  he 
announced.  "My  Latinity  was  severely  tried,  but  the 
chapter  and  verse  gave  me  the  English  equivalent, 
and  that  supplied  the  key.  Some  one  has  tat  — 
some  one  has  written  here  portions  of  the  37th  and  38th 
verses  of  the  eleventh  chapter  of  St.  Paul's  Epistle  to 
the  Hebrews.  Our  version  runs:  'They  were  stoned, 
they  were  sawn  asunder,  were  tempted,  were  slain 
with  the  sword  .  .  .  they  wandered  in  deserts  and  in 
mountains,  and  in  dens  and  caves  of  the  earth.'  The 
remainder  of  the  text  is  in  yet  another  language  — 
Portuguese,  I  imagine  —  but  my  small  lore  in  that 
tongue  is  of  no  avail.  In  any  case  my  vocabulary 
could  not  possibly  consort  with  the  stately  utterances 
of  St.  Paul,  as  it  consists  mainly  of  remarks  adapted 
to  the  intelligence  of  a  certain  type  of  freebooter  pecul- 
iar to  the  West  African  hinterland." 

"What  do  you  make  of  it  all?"  she  asked. 

"At  present  —  nothing.     It  is  an  enigma,  until  I 
secure  a  Portuguese-English  dictionary.    Then  I  shall 

38 


Wherein  a  Strong  Man  Yields 

know  more.  Judging  by  appearances,  the  message, 
whatsoever  it  may  be,  is  complete." 

"What  sort  of  skin  is  that?" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  slowly.  She  was  conscious  of  a 
curious  searching  quality  in  his  glance  that  she  had 
not  seen  there  before. 

"It  is  hard  to  say,"  he  answered.  And,  indeed,  he 
spoke  the  literal  truth,  being  fully  assured  that  the 
shriveled  parchment  pinned  to  the  deck  had  once 
covered  the  bones  of  a  white  man. 

"The  writing  is  funny,  too,"  she  went  on,  with 
charming  disregard  for  the  meaning  of  words. 

"It  is  pricked  in  with  a  needle  and  Indian  ink,"  he 
explained.  "That  is  an  indelible  method,"  he  con- 
tinued hurriedly,  seeing  that  she  was  striving  to  recall 
something  that  the  phrase  reminded  her  of,  and  here 
was  a  real  danger  of  the  suggestive  word  which  had  so 
nearly  escaped  his  lips  being  brought  to  her  recollec- 
tion. "You  see,  I  have  been  able  to  identify  the 
gentleman  who  served  the  artist  as  model,"  and  he 
tapped  the  gourd  lightly.  "Therefore,  I  am  sure  that 
this  comes  from  a  land  where  pen  and  ink  were  un- 
known in  the  days  when  some  unhappy  Christian 
fashioned  such  a  quaint  contrivance  to  carry  his  screed." 

"Some  unhappy  Christian!"  she  repeated.  "You 
mean  that  some  European  probably  fell  into  the  hands 
of  West  African  savages  years  and  years  ago,  and 
took  this  means  of  safeguarding  a  secret?" 

"Who  can  tell?"  he  answered,  picking  up  the  cala- 
bash and  gazing  steadfastly  at  the  malignant  visage 

39 


The  Message 

thus  brought  again  into  the  full  glare  of  the  sun.  "This 
fellow  can  almost  speak.  If  only  he  could  — 

"Oh,  don't,"  wailed  the  girl.  "My  very  heart  stops 
beating  when  I  see  that  dreadful  face.  Please  put  it 
away.  If  you  will  not  throw  it  overboard,  or  smash 
it  to  atoms,  at  least  hide  it." 

"Sorry,"  he  said  gruffly,  fitting  the  loose  lid  into  its 
place.  He  disliked  hysterical  women,  and,  greatly  to 
his  surprise,  Evelyn  Dane  seemed  to  be  rather  dis- 
posed to  yield  to  hysteria. 

"The  more  I  examine  this  thing  the  more  I  am  be- 
wildered," he  went  on,  endeavoring  to  cover  his  harsh- 
ness by  an  assumption  of  indifference.  "Where  in 
the  world  did  this  varnish  come  from  ?  It  has  all  the 
gloss  and  smooth  texture  and  absence  of  color  that  one 
finds  on  a  genuine  Cremona  violin.  The  man  who 
mixed  it  must  have  known  the  recipe  lost  when  Antonio 
Stradivarius  died.  Are  you  good  at  dates  ?" 

The  suddenness  of  the  question  perplexed  her. 

"Do  you  mean  the  sort  of  dates  that  one  acquired 
painfully  at  school?"  she  asked.  "If  so,  I  can  give 
you  the  year  of  the  Battle  of  Hastings  or  the  signing 
of  Magna  Charta." 

"The  period  of  a  great  artist's  career  is  infinitely 
more  important,"  he  broke  in.  "Stradivarius  was  at 
the  height  of  his  fame  about  1700.  Now,  if  this  is  the 
varnish  he  and  Amati  and  Guarnerius  used,  we  have  a 
shadowy  clue  to  guide  us  in  our  inquiry." 

"Please  don't  include  me  in  the  quest,"  she  said 
decisively.  "I  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it. 

40 


Wherein  a  Strong  Man  Yields 

Leave  the  matter  to  me,  and  that  nasty  calabash  floats 
off  toward  the  Atlantic  or  sinks  in  the  Solent,  exactly 
as  the  fates  direct.  Positively,  I  am  afraid  of  it." 

"I  really  meant  to  take  it  out  of  your  sight  when  I 
caught  a  glint  of  the  varnish,"  he  pleaded. 

But  his  humility  held  a  spice  of  sarcasm.  Rising, 
he  tucked  the  gourd  under  his  coat.  He  was  half-way 
down  the  hatch  when  his  glance  fell  on  the  little  square 
of  skin  on  the  deck.  Already  the  heat  of  the  sun  had 
affected  it,  and  two  of  the  pins  had  given  way.  He 
came  back. 

"I  may  as  well  remove  the  lot  while  I  am  about  it," 
he  said,  stooping  to  withdraw  the  remaining  pins. 

"Oh,  I  am  not  to  be  frightened  by  that,"  she  cried, 
with  a  pout  that  was  reminiscent  of  the  school-girl 
period. 

He  laughed,  but  suppressed  the  quip  that  might 
have  afforded  some  hidden  satisfaction. 

"Gourd  and  document  are  much  of  a  muchness," 
he  said  carelessly. 

The  parchment  curled  with  unexpected  speed,  and 
caught  his  fingers  in  an  uncanny  grip.  Without  think- 
ing what  he  was  doing,  he  shook  it  off  as  though  it 
were  a  scorpion.  Then,  flushing  a  little,  he  seized  it, 
and  stuffed  it  into  a  pocket.  Miss  Dane  missed  no 
item  of  this  by-play.  But  she,  too,  could  exercise  the 
art  of  self-repression,  and  left  unuttered  the  words  that 
her  heart  dictated.  Being  a  methodical  person,  she 
gathered  the  pins  and  replaced  them  in  the  hussif.  She 
had  just  finished  when  Warden  returned. 

41 


The  Message 

"You  don't  mean  to  say "  he  began,  but  checked 

himself.  After  all,  if  he  harped  on  the  subject,  there 
was  some  risk  that  the  girl's  intuition  might  read  a 
good  deal  of  the  truth  into  what  she  had  seen  and 
heard  during  the  past  half-hour.  So  he  changed  a 
protest  into  a  compliment. 

"Economy  is  the  greatest  of  the  domestic  virtues. 
Now,  a  mere  man  would  have  waited  until  one  of  those 
pins  stuck  into  his  foot  as  he  was  crossing  the  deck  for 
his  morning  dip,  and  then  he  would  say  things.  By 
the  way,  Peter  believes  the  breeze  is  freshening.  Would 
you  care  for  a  short  cruise?" 

A  delightful  color  suffused  the  girl's  face.  "I  feel 
like  lifting  my  eyebrows  at  my  own  behavior,"  she 
said,  "but  I  must  admit  that  I  should  enjoy  it  im- 
mensely. Please  bring  me  back  here  before  six  o'clock. 
I  wish  to  go  on  board  the  Sans  Souci  the  moment  Mrs. 
Baumgartner  arrives." 

In  response  to  Warden's  summons,  Peter  and  Chris 
appeared  on  deck.  The  Nancy  cast  off  from  her  buoy, 
her  canvas  leaped  to  the  embrace  of  the  wind,  and  soon 
she  was  slipping  through  the  water  at  a  spanking  pace 
in  the  direction  of  Portsmouth  and  the  anchored  fleet, 
for  the  cutter  could  move  when  her  sails  filled. 

Thenceforth  the  talk  was  nautical.  Peter  enter- 
tained them  with  details  of  the  warships  or  the  yachts 
competing  in  the  various  races.  Once,  by  chance,  the 
conversation  veered  close  to  West  Africa,  when  War- 
den gave  a  vivid  description  of  the  sensations  of  the 
novice  who  makes  his  first  landing  in  a  surf-boat. 

42 


Wherein  a  Strong  Man  Yields 

But  Peter  soon  brought  them  back  to  the  British  Isles 
by  his  reminiscences  of  boarding  salt-stained  and 
sooty  tramps  in  an  equinoctial  gale  off  Lundy.  No 
unpleasing  incident  marred  a  perfect  afternoon  until 
tea  was  served,  and  the  cutter  ran  to  her  moorings. 

The  guardian  Gorgon  of  the  Sans  Souci  watched 
their  return,  and  it  was  evident  that  his  solitary  vigil 
was  still  unbroken.  About  half-past  six,  when  a 
swarm  of  yachts  were  beating  up  the  roads  on  the  turn 
of  the  tide,  a  steam  launch  approached  the  Sans  Souci 
and  deposited  a  lady  and  gentleman  on  the  gangway. 
They  were  alone.  The  watchman  helped  them  to 
reach  the  deck,  a  financial  transaction  took  place 
between  him  and  the  gentleman,  the  latter  disappeared 
instantly,  and  the  watchman  descended  the  ladder 
with  the  evident  intention  of  entering  the  launch. 

But  he  hesitated,  and  pointed  to  the  Nancy,  where- 
upon the  lady,  to  whom  he  was  speaking,  looked  fixedly 
at  the  cutter  and  her  occupants. 

"That  is  Mrs.  Baumgartner,  I  am  sure,"  said  Evelyn 
eagerly.  "Will  you  take  me  across  in  the  dinghy  at 
once?  Then,  if  necessary,  I  can  reach  Portsmouth 
easily  this  evening,  as  I  shall  have  gained  half  an 
hour." 

She  gave  no  heed  to  the  astounding  fact  that  if  these 
people  were  really  the  yacht-owner  and  his  wife  they 
were  absolutely  alone  on  the  vessel.  Warden,  unwill- 
ing to  arouse  distrust  in  her  mind,  bade  Peter  draw 
the  dinghy  alongside. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand  frankly. 
43 


The  Message 

"The  world  is  small,  and  we  shall  meet  again.  Re- 
member, you  have  promised  to  write,  and,  in  the 
meantime,  do  not  forget  that  if  the  Nancy  or  her  crew 
can  offer  you  any  service  we  are  within  hailing  dis- 
tance." 

"You  are  not  leaving  Cowes  to-night,  then?" 

"No.  To-morrow,  if  the  wind  serves,  we  go  east, 
to  Brighton  and  Dover,  and  perhaps  as  far  north  as 
Cromer.  After  that,  to  Holland.  But  no  matter 
where  I  am,  I  manage  to  secure  my  letters." 

Evelyn  gave  his  hand  a  grateful  little  pressure. 
She  was  not  insensible  of  the  tact  that  sent  Peter  as 
her  escort. 

"You  have  been  exceedingly  good  and  kind  to  me," 
she  said.  "I  shall  never  forget  this  most  charming 
day,  and  I  shall  certainly  write  to  you.  Good-by, 
Chris.  Good-by,  dear  little  ship.  What  a  pity  — 
she  paused  and  laughed  with  pretty  embarrassment. 
"I  think  I  was  going  to  say  what  a  pity  it  is  that  these 
pleasant  hours  cannot  last  longer  —  they  come  too 
rarely  in  life." 

And  with  that  she  was  gone,  though  she  turned  twice 
during  her  short  voyage,  and  waved  a  hand  to  the  man 
who  was  looking  at  her  so  steadily  while  he  leaned 
against  the  cutter's  mast  and  smoked  in  silence. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  lady  on  the  Sans 
Souci  was  Mrs.  Baumgartner.  No  sooner  did  she 
realize  that  Miss  Dane's  arrival  was  imminent  than 
she  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  Continental  affectation 
of  amazement  and  ran  into  the  deck  cabin.  To  all 

44 


Wherein  a  Strong  Man  Yields 

seeming,  she  bade  the  launch  await  further  orders. 
Baumgartner  and  his  wife  reappeared,  they  indulged 
in  gesticulations  to  which  Warden  could  readily  imag- 
ine an  accompaniment  of  harsh-sounding  German, 
and,  evidently  as  the  outcome  of  their  talk,  the  launch 
steamed  away. 

Warden  smiled  sourly. 

"If  those  people  had  committed  a  murder  on  board, 
and  were  anxious  to  sink  their  victim  several  fathoms 
deep  before  anybody  interfered  with  them,  they  could 
hardly  be  more  excited,"  he  thought.  "Perhaps  it 
won't  do  my  young  friend  any  good  if  I  remain  here 
staring  straight  at  the  yacht." 

He  busied  himself  with  an  unnecessary  stowing  away 
of  the  cutter's  mainsail,  but  contrived  to  watch  events 
sufficiently  to  note  that  Mrs.  Baumgartner  received 
her  guest  with  voluble  courtesy.  Baumgartner,  a 
French-polished  edition  of  the  bacon-factor  type  of 
man,  bustled  the  two  ladies  out  of  sight,  and  thence- 
forth, during  more  than  an  hour,  the  deck  of  the  Sans 
Souci  was  absolutely  untenanted. 

Twilight  was  deepening;  lights  began  to  twinkle  on 
shore;  not  a  few  careful  captains  showed  riding  lamps, 
although  the  precaution  was  yet  needless;  launches 
and  ships'  boats  were  cleaving  long  black  furrows  in 
the  slate-blue  surface  of  the  Solent  as  they  ferried 
parties  of  diners  from  shore  or  yachts  —  but  never  a 
sign  of  life  was  there  on  board  the  Sans  Souci.  Peter, 
undisturbed  by  speculations  anent  the  future  of  the 
young  lady  whose  presence  had  brightened  the  deck 

45 


The  Message 

of  the  Nancy  during  the  afternoon,  cooked  an  appe- 
tizing supper.  He  was  surprised  when  Warden  ex- 
pressed a  wish  that  they  should  eat  without  a  light. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his  employer  was  mount- 
ing guard  over  the  Baumgartners'  yacht,  and  meant 
to  have  a  clear  field  of  vision  while  a  shred  of  daylight 
remained. 

The  progress  of  the  meal  was  rudely  broken  in  on 
by  Peter  himself.  Although  the  placid  silence  of  the 
night  was  frequently  disturbed  by  the  flapping  of 
propellers,  his  sailor's  ear  caught  the  stealthy  approach 
of  the  one  vessel  that  boded  possible  danger.  Swing- 
ing himself  upright  he  roared : 

"Where's  that  ugly  Dutchman  a-comin'  to?  Quick 
with  a  light,  Chris,  or  she'll  be  on  top  of  us!" 

It  was  the  Emperor's  cruiser-yacht  that  had  so 
suddenly  upset  his  equanimity.  Returning  to  Cowes 
after  convoying  the  yacht  flotilla,  she  was  now  fully  a 
mile  away  from  her  usual  anchorage.  But  the  Nancy 
was  safe  enough.  The  imperial  yacht  stopped  at  a 
distance  of  three  cables'  lengths,  reversed  her  engines, 
let  go  an  anchor,  and  ran  up  to  the  chain  hawser  when 
the  hoarse  rattle  of  its  first  rush  had  ceased. 

Chris  lost  no  time  in  producing  a  lantern,  and  his 
father  slung  it  in  its  proper  place. 

"It  'ud  be  just  our  luck  if  we  wos  run  down,"  War- 
den heard  him  mutter.  "  That  nigger's  phiz  we  shipped 
to-day  is  enough  to  sink  any  decent  craft,  blow  me,  if 
it  ain't!" 

Warden,  whose  vigil  had  not  relaxed  for  an  instant, 
46 


Wherein  a  Strong  Man  Yields 

saw  that  some  one  was  hoisting  a  masthead  light  on 
the  Sans  Souci.  Her  starboard  light  followed,  and 
soon  the  yellow  eyes  of  a  row  of  closed  ports  stared  at 
him  solemnly  across  the  intervening  water.  As  the 
principal  living-rooms  of  such  a  vessel  must  certainly 
be  the  deck  saloons,  he  was  more  than  ever  puzzled 
by  the  eccentric  behavior  of  her  owners.  Every  other 
yacht  in  the  roadstead  was  brilliantly  illuminated. 
The  Sans  Souci  alone  seemed  to  court  secrecy. 

It  has  been  seen  that,  in  holiday  mood,  he  was  a 
creature  of  impulse,  nor  did  he  lack  the  audacity  of 
prompt  decision  when  it  was  called  for.  He  showed 
both  qualities  now  by  hauling  the  dinghy  alongside 
and  stepping  into  it. 

"Goin'  ashore,  sir?"  cried  the  surprised  Peter. 

They  kept  early  hours  on  board,  and  Warden's 
usual  habit  was  to  be  asleep  by  half-past  nine  when 
the  cutter  was  at  her  moorings. 

"No.     I  mean  to  pay  a  call.     Got  a  match?" 

"Let  me  take  you,  sir." 

"No  need,  thanks.  I'm  bound  for  the  Sans  Souci. 
I  may  be  back  in  five  minutes." 

He  lit  a  cigar,  cast  off,  and  rowed  himself  leisurely 
toward  the  vessel  which  had  filled  so  large  a  space  in 
his  thoughts  ever  since  he  met  Evelyn  Dane  in  the 
street  outside  the  steamer  pier.  His  intent  was  to  ask 
for  her,  to  refuse  to  go  away  unless  he  spoke  to  her, 
and,  when  she  appeared,  as  his  well-ordered  senses 
told  him  would  surely  be  the  case,  to  frame  some  idle 
excuse  for  the  liberty  he  had  taken.  She  had  talked 

47 


The  Message 

of  returning  to  Portsmouth  that  evening,  and  it  might 
serve  if  he  expressed  his  willingness  to  carry  her 
imaginary  luggage  from  the  quay  to  the  railway 
station.  She  was  shrewd  and  tactful.  She  would 
understand,  perhaps,  that  he  was  anxious  for  her 
welfare,  and  it  would  not  embarrass  her  to  state  whether 
or  not  his  services  were  needed. 

He  was  nearing  the  yacht  when  the  red  and  green 
eyes  of  a  launch  gleamed  at  him  as  he  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  to  take  measure  of  his  direction.  There  was 
no  other  vessel  exactly  in  line  with  the  Sans  Souci,  and 
the  thought  struck  him  that  this  might  be  the  messen- 
ger of  the  gods  in  so  far  as  they  busied  themselves 
with  Miss  Dane's  affairs.  There  was  no  harm  in 
waiting  a  few  minutes,  so  he  altered  the  dinghy's 
course  in  such  wise  that  the  launch,  if  it  were  actually 
bound  for  the  yacht,  must  pass  quite  closely,  though 
he,  to  all  outward  seeming,  was  in  no  way  concerned 
with  its  destination.  His  guess  was  justified.  While 
the  tiny  steamer  was  still  fifty  yards  distant,  the  quick 
pulsation  of  her  engines  slackened.  She  drew  near, 
and  the  figure  of  a  sailor  with  a  boat-hook  in  his  hands 
was  silhouetted  against  the  last  bright  strip  of  sky  in 
the  northwest.  She  passed,  and  it  demanded  all 
Arthur  Warden's  cool  nerve  to  maintain  a  steady  pull 
at  the  oars  and  smoke  the  cigar  of  British  complacency 
when  he  saw  Miguel  Figuero  and  three  men  of  the 
tribe  of  Oku  seated  in  the  cushioned  space  aft. 

He  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  knew  the  WTest 
African  hinterland  so  well  that  he  could  distinguish 

48 


Wherein  a  Strong  Man  Yields 

the  inhabitants  of  different  districts  by  facial  charac- 
teristics slight  in  themselves  but  as  clearly  visible  to 
the  eye  of  experience  as  the  varying  race-marks  of  a 
Frenchman  and  a  Norwegian.  Coming  thus  strangely 
on  the  heels  of  the  discovery  of  that  amazing  calabash, 
the  incident  was  almost  stupefying.  The  presence  of 
Figuero  alone  in  Cowes  was  perplexing  —  the  appear- 
ance of  three  Oku  blacks  was  a  real  marvel  —  that  all 
four  should  be  visitors  to  the  Sans  Souci  savored  of 
necromancy.  But  Warden  did  not  hesitate.  He  made 
certain  that  the  strange  quartette  were  being  conveyed 
to  the  yacht;  he  took  care  to  note  that  their  arrival  was 
expected,  seeing  that  Baumgartner  himself  came  down 
the  gangway  with  a  lantern  to  light  the  way  on  board; 
and  then  he  pulled  back  to  the  Nancy.  Ere  he  reached 
her,  the  launch  had  gone  shoreward  again. 

"You've  changed  your  mind,  sir,"  was  Peter's 
greeting. 

"You  were  keeping  a  lookout,  then?"  said  Warden. 

"'Ave  nothin'  else  to  do,  so  to  speak,  sir." 

"Well,  jump  in  and  take  the  oars.  I  shall  be  with 
you  in  a  moment." 

Warden  dived  into  the  small  cabin,  rummaged  in  a 
box,  and  produced  two  revolvers.  He  examined  both 
weapons  carefully  under  the  cutter's  light,  and  ascer- 
tained that  they  were  properly  loaded,  whereupon  one 
went  into  each  of  the  outer  pockets  of  his  coat. 

"Now  take  me  to  the  Sans  Souci,  Peter,"  he  said. 
"When  I  reach  the  gangway,  pull  off  a  couple  of 
lengths,  and  stand  by." 

49 


The  Message 

"What's  doin'  ?"  asked  Peter,  who  was  by  no  means 
unobservant. 

"Nothing,  I  hope.  I  may  have  to  talk  big,  and 
twelve  ounces  of  lead  lend  weight  to  an  argument. 
But  I  am  puzzled,  Peter,  and  I  hate  that  condition. 
You  remember  our  nigger  friend  on  the  gourd?" 

"Remember  'im.  Shall  I  ever  forget  'im?"  —and 
the  ex-pilot  spat. 

"Well,  three  live  members  of  his  tribe,  and  the 
worst  Portuguese  slave-trader  and  gin-runner  now 
known  in  West  Africa,  have  just  boarded  the  Sans 
Souci.  I  don't  consider  them  fit  company  for  Miss 
Dane.  Wrhat  do  you  say?" 

Peter  hung  on  the  oars. 

"W'y  not  let  Chris  come  an'  look  after  the  dinghy?" 
he  said.  "You  may  need  a  friendly  hand  w'en  the 
band  plays." 

Warden  laughed. 

"We  are  in  England,  Peter,"  he  replied;  but  the 
words  had  a  far  less  convincing  sound  in  his  ears  now 
than  when  he  protested  against  Evelyn  Dane's  unrea- 
soning detestation  of  the  carved  gourd.  One  of  the 
weapons  in  his  pockets  was  actually  resting  on  the 
crackling  skin  of  a  man  who  had  been  flayed  alive  — 
and  most  probably  so  flayed  by  ancestors  of  the  negroes 
who  were  on  board  the  Sans  Souci  at  that  instant. 
The  thought  strengthened  his  determination  to  see 
and  speak  to  the  girl  that  night.  At  all  costs  he 
would  persevere  until  she  herself  assured  him  that  she 
had  no  wish  to  go  ashore.  He  even  made  up  his  mind 

50 


Wherein  a  Strong  Man  Yields 

to  persuade  her  to  return  to  Portsmouth  for  the  night, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  no  consideration  could  move 
him  from  his  purpose. 

Whereat  Lachesis,  she  who  spins  the  thread  of  life, 
must  have  smiled.  Short  as  was  the  distance  to  be 
traversed  by  the  dinghy  under  the  impetus  of  Peter 
Evans's  strong  arms,  the  cruel  goddess  who  pays  no 
regard  to  human  desires  had  already  contrived  the  warp 
and  weft  of  circumstances  that  would  deter  even  a 
bolder  man  than  Warden  from  thrusting  himself 
unbidden  into  the  queer  company  gathered  on  the 
yacht. 

The  pilot  was  pulling  straight  to  the  gangway  when 
a  large  steam  launch  whistled  an  angry  warning  that 
he  was  crossing  her  bows.  He  twisted  the  dinghy 
broadside  on,  and  both  Warden  and  he  saw  two  officers 
in  the  uniform  of  a  foreign  navy  step  on  to  the  Sans 
Souci  gangway,  where  Baumgartner,  bare-headed  and 
obsequious  of  manner,  was  standing  to  receive  them. 

The  Nancy's  boat  was  so  near  that  her  occupants 
could  hear  the  millionaire's  words  distinctly  as  he 
greeted  the  first  of  his  two  latest  visitors.  He  spoke 
in  German,  and  Peter  was  none  the  wiser,  but  Warden 
understood,  and  his  errant  fears  for  Evelyn  Dane's 
welfare  were  promptly  merged  in  a  very  ocean  of 
bewilderment. 

"The  Nancy  for  us,  Peter,"  he  murmured.  "As 
they  say  in  the  States,  I  have  bitten  off  more  than  I  can 
chew.  Do  you  know  who  that  is?" 

"Which?  — the  little  one?" 
51 


The  Message 

"Yes." 

"Mebbe  he's  the  skipper  of  the  Dutchman  yonder. 
That's  her  launch." 

"He  is  skipper  of  many  Dutchmen.  Mr.  Baum- 
gartner  addressed  him  as  'emperor.'  Give  way, 
Peter.  We  must  watch  and  eke  pray,  but  there  are 
affairs  afoot  —  or  shall  I  say  afloat  —  that  it  behooves 
not  a  simple  official  in  the  Nigeria  Protectorate  to 
meddle  with.  God  wot!  I  have  earned  a  captaincy 
and  a  year's  leave  by  serving  my  country  in  a  humble 
capacity.  Let  me  not  lose  both  by  an  act  of  lese 
majeste,  and  it  would  be  none  else  were  I  to  break  in 
on  the  remarkable  conclave  now  assembled  on  board 
the  Sans  Souci!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

FIGUERO   MAKES   A   DISCOVERY 

"You  don't  mean  to  say "  gasped  Peter. 

"I  do.  And  the  less  notice  we  attract  during  the 
next  five  minutes  the  better  I  shall  be  pleased.  Bear 
away  to  the  nearest  yacht,  and  let  me  apologize  for 
being  late." 

So,  if  there  were  eyes  on  board  the  Sans  Souci  that 
paid  heed  to  aught  save  the  coming  of  an  august  visitor, 
they  would  have  seen  nothing  more  remarkable  than  a 
small  boat  visiting  at  least  two  vessels  in  seemingly 
unsuccessful  quest  of  one  among  the  hundreds  of  yachts 
in  the  roadstead. 

Following  a  devious  route,  the  dinghy  reached  the 
cutter  from  the  port  side.  Warden  secured  a  pair  of 
night  binoculars,  seated  himself  on  the  hatch,  and 
mounted  guard  over  the  Sans  Souci.  The  cruiser's 
launch  was  still  alongside,  and  the  time  passed  slowly 
until  the  two  officers  descended  the  gangway  and  were 
borne  swiftly  in  the  direction  of  the  Royal  Yacht  Club 
landing-slip.  They  had  been  on  board  three-quarters 
of  an  hour. 

There  was  now  so  little  movement  afloat  that  the 
pulsation  of  the  screw  could  be  heard  until  it  was  quite 

53 


The  Message 

near  the  private  pier.  Finally  it  was  dominated  by  the 
strains  of  the  Castle  band  beginning  the  evening  pro- 
gramme with  the  "Boulanger  March,"  and  Warden 
smiled  as  he  thought  how  singularly  inappropriate  the 
lively  tune  must  sound  in  the  ears  of  the  potentate 
hurrying  shoreward. 

The  band  broke  off  abruptly;  after  a  brief  pause  it 
struck  up  again. 

"The  King,  Gord  bless  'im!"  said  Peter  loyally. 

"No.  That  is  not  for  the  King.  They  are  playing 
Heil  dir  im  Sieger  Krantz,"  said  Warden,  still  peering 
at  the  Sans  Souci. 

"Well,  it's  the  fust  time  I've  ever  heerd  'Gord  save 
the  King'  called  that,"  expostulated  the  pilot. 

"Same  tune,  different  words." 

Peter  sniffed  in  his  scorn. 

"They'll  be  sayin'  the  Old  Hundredth  is  a  Dutch 
hornpipe  next,"  he  growled. 

The  Prussian  National  hymn  might  have  acted  as  a 
tocsin  to  Mr.  Baumgartner,  for  a  light  was  hoisted 
forthwith  over  the  poop  of  the  Sans  Souci,  and  Warden 
discerned  the  tall  forms  of  the  three  West  African 
natives  standing  near  the  tubby  man  who  manipulated 
rope  and  pulley.  Figuero  was  not  visible  at  first. 
Warden  began  to  be  annoyed.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  such  a  social  outcast  could  be  left  in  Evelyn 
Dane's  company?  Developments  soon  relieved  the 
tension.  A  launch  puffed  up  and  took  away  the 
visitors,  Figuero  being  the  last  to  step  on  board. 
The  noisy  little  vessel  was  succeeded  by  two  boats  filled 

54 


Figuero  Makes  a  Discovery 

with  sailors  and  servants.  Within  a  few  minutes  the 
yacht's  officers  arrived,  the  deck  saloons  were  brilliantly 
illuminated,  and  the  Sans  Souci  became  a  jeweled 
palace  like  unto  the  host  of  her  congeners  in  the  Solent. 

By  this  time  Peter  was  as  interested  as  his  employer 
in  the  comings  and  goings  of  their  neighbors. 

"There's  more  in  that  than  meets  the  eye,  Mr. 
Warden,"  he  said,  rolling  some  tobacco  between  his 
palms  preparatory  to  filling  his  pipe. 

"Yet  a  good  deal  has  met  our  eyes  to-night,"  was 
the  quiet  answer. 

Peter  worked  his  great  hands  methodically.  He 
was  not  a  man  of  many  words;  and  when  he  expressed 
an  opinion  it  was  the  outcome  of  calm  deliberation. 

"Tell  me  who  them  niggers  an'  the  other  party  wos, 
an'  I'll  do  some  fair  guessin',"  he  said.  "Rum  thing, 
too,  that  such  a  gazebo  as  that  murderous-lookin' 
swab  on  the  calabash  should  cross  our  course  just  when 
it  did.  Were  did  it  come  from  —  that's  wot  I  want  to 
know.  Has  there  bin  an  earthquake?  If  looks 
count  for  anythink,  it  might  have  risen  straight  up 
from- 

" Peter,"  broke  in  Warden,  "I  hope  Chris  is  in 
bed?" 

The  pilot  laughed. 

"Time  we  wos,  too,  sir.  May  I  ax  w'ere  his  black 
nibs  is  stowed?" 

"Among  my  traps.  Forget  it.  I  shall  send  it  to 
London  in  the  morning." 

"An'  a  good  job  to  be  rid  of  it.  I've  seen  some 
55 


The  Message 

queer  fish  in  the  sea,  from  bottle-nosed  whales  an* 
sharks  to  dead  pigs  who  'ad  cut  their  own  throats  with 
their  fore  feet  by  swimmin'  from  a  wrecked  ship,  but 
never  before  'ave  I  clapped  my  peepers  on  a  fizzy- 
mahog  like  that." 

Twice  had  an  unusually  long  speech  betrayed  his 
irate  sentiment.  He  was  deeply  stirred.  Warden, 
smoking  and  listening  in  silence,  but  never  relaxing  his 
vigilant  scrutiny  of  the  Sans  Souci,  felt  that,  in  very 
truth,  there  must  be  some  malign  influence  in  the 
carved  head  on  the  gourd  ere  it  would  arouse  the  in- 
tense repugnance  of  two  such  different  natures  as  those 
of  the  bluff,  good-tempered  sailor  and  the  dainty,  well- 
bred  girl  who  had  come  so  suddenly  into  his  life. 

He  did  not  pursue  the  conversation.  Though 
Evans  was  quite  trustworthy,  there  was  no  need  to 
make  him  a  confidant  in  matters  which  might  have 
the  gravest  bearing  on  an  already  troubled  position 
in  West  Africa.  The  pilot's  carefully  charged  pipe 
was  nearly  empty  when  Warden  surprised  him  with 
an  abrupt  question. 

"What  time  does  the  first  train  leave  for  London  in 
the  morning?" 

"Round  about  seven  o'clock,"  he  said. 

"You  ain't  thinkin'  of  chuckin'  the  cruise,  I  hope, 
sir,"  he  went  on,  and  the  dejection  in  his  voice  showed 
that  he  was  prepared  for  the  worst. 

"For  a  few  hours,  perhaps  a  night  —  that  is  all." 

"So  you  b'lieve  they  mean  mischief?"  growled 
Peter,  jerking  a  thumb  toward  the  yacht. 

56 


Figuero  Makes  a  Discovery 

This  direct  and  forcible  reasoning  was  unexpected. 
Yet  any  level-headed  man  might  have  reached  practi- 
cally the  same  conclusions  from  the  night's  happenings. 
They  were  clear  enough  to  one  versed  in  most  of  the 
intricacies  and  pitfalls  of  West  African  politics,  nor 
did  Warden  endeavor  to  evade  the  point. 

"I  believe  that  there  are  people  in  London  who 
should  know  what  you  and  I  know,"  he  said  slowly. 
"Anyhow,  let  us  turn  in.  Miss  Evelyn  Dane  evidently 
sleeps  on  board.  Perhaps  the  morning's  light  may 
dispel  some  of  the  vapors  that  cloud  our  brains  to- 
night." 

The  early  train  from  Cowes  did  not,  however,  carry 
Arthur  Warden  among  the  London-bound  passen- 
gers. 

A  glimpse  of  Evelyn  on  the  deck  of  the  Sans  Souci 
altered  that  portion  of  his  plans.  She  waved  a  pleasant 
greeting,  held  up  both  hands  with  the  fingers  spread 
widely  apart,  and  nodded  her  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  town.  He  took  the  gesture  to  mean  that  she 
was  going  ashore  at  ten  o'clock,  and  he  signaled  back 
the  information  that  he  would  precede  her  at  nine. 
Not  until  he  found  himself  dawdling  on  the  quay, 
killing  time  as  lazily  as  possible,  did  the  thought 
obtrude  that  he  was  extraordinarily  anxious  to  meet 
her  again.  Of  course,  it  irritated  him.  A  smart 
soldier,  with  small  means  beyond  his  pay  —  with  a  foot 
just  planted  on  the  first  rung  of  the  administrator's 
ladder  in  a  land  where  life  itself  is  too  often  the  price 
asked  for  higher  climbing  —  he  had  no  business  to 

57 


The  Message 

show  any  undue  desire  to  cultivate  the  acquaintance 
of  young  ladies  so  peculiarly  eligible  as  Evelyn  Dane. 
He  knew  this  so  well  that  he  scoffed  at  the  notion,  put 
two  knuckles  between  his  lips,  and  emitted  a  peculiarly 
shrill  and  compelling  whistle. 

For  its  special  purpose  —  the  summoning  of  a  boy 
selling  newspapers  —  it  was  a  sure  means  toward  an 
end.  It  drew  the  boy's  attention,  even  evoked  his 
envy.  But  it  chanced  also  to  be  a  krooboy  call  on 
the  Upper  Niger,  and  in  that  capacity  it  brought  a 
lean,  swarthy  face  to  the  window  of  a  bedroom  in  a 
quiet  hotel  overlooking  the  quay. 

Senor  Miguel  Figuero  looked  annoyed  at  first.  His 
dark,  prominent  eyes  searched  the  open  space  for  one 
of  the  negroes  whom  he  expected  to  find  there,  but  his 
wrathful  expression  changed  to  blank  incredulity 
when  he  saw  Warden.  The  phase  of  sheer  unbelief 
did  not  last  long.  He  darted  out  of  the  room,  and 
rapped  sharply  on  a  neighboring  door. 

"O  Loanda,  M'Wanga!  you  fit  for  get  up  one-time," 
he  shouted. 

Crossing  the  corridor,  he  roused  another  dusky 
gentleman,  Pana  by  name,  with  the  same  imperative 
command.  Soon  the  four  were  gathered  at  a  window 
and  gazing  at  Warden. 

"Dep'ty  Commissioner  Brass  River  lib,"  whispered 
the  Portuguese  eagerly.  "You  savvy  —  him  dat  was 
in  Oku  bush  las'  year.  Him  captain  Hausa  men. 
You  lib  for  see  him." 

"O  Figuero,"  said  one  of  the  negroes,  seemingly 
58 


Figuero  Makes  a  Discovery 

their  leader,  "I  plenty  much  savvy.  I  see  him  palaver 
in  village." 

"S'pose  we  fit  for  catch  'im?"  suggested  another. 

"That  fool  talk  here,"  growled  Figuero.  "You  lib 
for  see  him  to-day  —  then  we  catch  him  bush  one- 
time. I  hear  him  give  boat-boy  whistle.  Stick  your 
eyes  on  him,  you  pagans,  an'  don't  you  lib  for  forget 
—  savvy?" 

They  grunted  agreement.  The  West  African 
bush-man  has  to  depend  almost  exclusively  on  his 
five  senses  for  continued  existence,  and  there  was 
little  doubt  that  Arthur  Warden  would  be  recog- 
nized by  each  man  at  any  future  date  within 
reason,  no  matter  what  uniform  he  wore,  or  how 
greatly  his  features  might  be  altered  by  hardship  or 
fever. 

"Why  he  lib  for  dis  place?"  asked  Loanda,  the 
chief,  who  remembered  Warden's  part  in  the  sup- 
pression of  a  slave-raid  and  the  punishment  subse- 
quently inflicted  on  those  who  aided  and  abetted  it. 

"No  savvy  —  yet.  I  lib  for  watch  —  then  I  savvy," 
said  the  Portuguese. 

"O  Figuero,  I  fit  for  chop,"  murmured  Pana,  who 
found  little  amusement  in  gazing  idly  at  an  English- 
man through  a  window  when  there  were  good  things 
to  eat  in  the  hotel. 

"All  right.  Go  an'  chop,  but  remain  in  room  till  I 
come.  Then  I  dash  you  one  quart  gin." 

Pana  grinned. 

"I  chop  one-time,"  he  said,  and,  indeed,  the  three 
59 


The  Message 

looked  as  though  they  could  tackle  a  roasted  sheep 
comfortably. 

Meanwhile,  Warden  opened  his  paper  and  took 
more  interest  than  usual  in  the  news.  He  learned  that 
the  emperor  dined  on  board  the  imperial  yacht  and 
subsequently  visited  the  Castle,  being  accompanied  by 
Count  von  Rippenbach  as  aide-de-camp. 

Warden  did  not  pretend  to  have  more  than  a  pass- 
ing knowledge  of  foreign  politics,  but  he  noted  the 
name,  the  Count  having  undoubtedly  been  a  party  to 
the  conference  on  the  Sans  Souci. 

Another  paragraph  was  of  more  immediate  import, 
inasmuch  as  it  tended  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  cala- 
bash. It  ran: 

"The  emperor's  yacht,  after  watching  the  British 
fleet  at  gun  practice  off  Selsey  Bill  yesterday,  returned 
to  the  island  and  followed  the  racers  during  several 
hours.  An  alarming  incident  occurred  when  round- 
ing the  Foreland.  Though  a  course  was  laid  close 
in-shore,  both  charts  and  lead  showed  ten  fathoms  of 
water.  Suddenly  the  cruiser  struck.  At  first  it  was 
believed  that  she  had  run  into  some  unknown  sand- 
bank formed  by  a  recent  gale,  but  examination  revealed 
that  she  had  collided  with  a  sunken  wreck,  invisible 
even  at  low-water  spring  tide.  No  damage  whatever 
was  done  to  the  stately  vessel,  which  continued  the 
cruise  after  a  delay  of  a  few  minfctes. 

"A  Sandown  gentleman,  passing  the  same  spot 
later  in  his  launch,  found  some  floating  wreckage. 
The  pieces  he  brought  ashore  are  believed  to  be  parts 

60 


Figuero  Makes  a  Discovery 

of  a  ship  dating  back  at  least  a  couple  of  centuries,  as 
there  is  no  record  within  modern  times  of  any  wooden 
ship  foundering  in  the  locality.  The  gentleman  in 
question  decided  to  mark  the  exact  spot  with  a  buoy, 
and  a  diver's  services  will  be  requisitioned  when  tide 
and  weather  are  suitable,  so  there  is  some  possibility 
that  a  number  of  antiques,  together  with  a  quantity 
of  very  old  timber,  will  be  recovered." 

Warden  read  the  item  twice.  He  found  that  the 
emperor  was  not  on  board  his  own  yacht  at  the  time. 
The  remainder  of  the  newspaper  was  dull.  He  threw 
away  all  but  the  page  referring  to  Cowes,  which  he 
stuffed  in  a  pocket,  and,  although  he  held  his  nerves 
under  good  control,  he  almost  swore  aloud  when  his 
fingers  touched  the  roll  of  skin,  whose  very  existence 
he  had  forgotten  for  the  hour. 

The  minutes  passed  slowly  until  a  gig  from  the  Sans 
Souci  deposited  Miss  Dane  on  the  wharf. 

Not  wishing  to  become  known  to  any  of  the  yacht's 
people  if  he  could  possibly  avoid  it,  Warden  strolled 
away  a  little  distance  as  soon  as  the  boat  appeared  in 
the  Medina.  Figuero,  whose  eyes  had  never  left  him 
for  an  instant  since  he  emitted  the  telltale  whistle, 
hurried  to  the  door  of  the  hotel  and  narrowly  escaped 
being  discovered  when  Warden  turned  on  his  heel. 

The  Portuguese,  an  expert  tracker  in  the  bush,  was 
out  of  his  element  in  Cowes,  but  he  managed  to  slip 
out  of  sight  in  good  time.  He  was  safer  than  he 
imagined.  Warden  was  looking  at  Evelyn  Dane,  and 
she  made  a  pretty  enough  picture  on  this  fine  sum- 

61 


The  Message 

mer's  day  to  keep  any  man's  glance  from  wander- 
ing. 

It  gave  him  a  subtle  sense  of  joy  to  note  the  unfeigned 
pleasure  of  her  greeting.  Her  face  mantled  with  a 
slight  color  as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  am  on  my  way  home,"  she  cried,  "but  my  train 
does  not  leave  for  half  an  hour.  It  is  so  good  of  you 
to  wait  here.  I  was  dreading  that  you  might  row 
across  to  the  yacht  —  not  because  I  did  not  want  to 
see  you  again,  but  Mr.  Baumgartner  made  such  a 
point  of  excluding  me  from  any  knowledge  of  his 
visitors  last  night  that  he  would  be  positively  ill  if  he 
guessed  I  had  friends  on  board  the  Nancy." 

"And  Mrs.  Baumgartner " 

"She  is  a  dear  creature,  but  much  in  awe  where  her 
husband's  business  affairs  are  concerned.  She  and  I 
passed  the  evening  together.  She  would  not  hear  of 
my  departure,  but  she  warned  me  not  to  say  a  word 
about  my  afternoon's  adventures.  Mr.  Baumgartner 
is  of  a  nervous  disposition.  I  suppose  he  thinks  all 
the  world  is  watching  him  because  he  is  a  rich 
man." 

"There  is  method  in  his  madness  this  time,"  laughed 
Warden.  "Let  me  tell  you  quite  candidly  that  if 
some  one  told  him  my  name  and  occupation  and 
added  the  information  that  I  kept  a  close  eye  on  the 
Sans  Souci  between  the  hours  of  5.30  and  9  P.M.  last 
night,  he,  being  of  plethoric  habit,  would  be  in  danger 
of  apoplexy." 

They  were  walking  to  the  station.  Evelyn,  unable 
62 


Figuero  Makes  a  Discovery 

to  decide  whether  or  not  to  take  his  words  seriously, 
gave  him  a  shy  look. 

"You  knew  I  was  safe  on  board,"  she  said. 

For  some  reason,  the  assumption  that  he  was  think- 
ing only  of  her  caused  the  blood  to  tingle  in  Warden's 
veins. 

"That  is  the  nicest  thing  you  could  have  said,"  he 
agreed,  and  she  in  turn  felt  her  heart  racing. 

"Of  course  you  are  very  well  aware  that  I  did  not 
imagine  you  might  not  be  differently  occupied,"  she 
protested. 

"Let  us  not  quarrel  about  meanings.  You  were 
delightfully  right.  It  is  the  simple  fact  that  before 
you  were  many  minutes  in  the  Sans  Souci's  cabin  — 
by  the  way,  where  were  you?" 

"In  Mrs.  Baumgartner's  state-room." 

"Ah.  Well  —  to  continue  —  I  was  nearly  coming 
to  take  you  away,  vi  et  armis." 

"But  why?" 

"You  have  no  idea  whom  Mr.  Baumgartner  was 
entertaining?" 

"None." 

"The  first  person  to  reach  the  Sans  Souci  after 
yourself  was  the  Portuguese  land-pirate  I  mentioned 
to  you  yesterday.  He  was  accompanied  by  three 
chiefs  of  the  men  of  Oku.  Do  you  recollect  my  descrip- 
tion of  the  mask  on  the  gourd?" 

She  uttered  a  startled  little  cry. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  was  all  she  could  find  to 
say. 

63 


The  Message 

"I  was  in  deadly  earnest  about  eight  o'clock  last 
evening,  I  assure  you.  Had  it  not  been  for  a  most 
amazing  intervention  you  would  certainly  have  heard 
me  demanding  your  instant  appearance  on  deck." 

"Then  what  happened?" 

"I  must  begin  by  admitting  that  I  was  worried 
about  you.  I  got  into  the  dinghy,  intending  to  see 
you  on  some  pretext.  A  launch  containing  this  precious 
gang  crossed  my  bows,  and  I  returned  to  the  Nancy 
to  —  to  secure  Peter's  assistance.  We  were  near  the 
Sans  Souci  on  the  second  trip  when  another  launch 
arrived,  and  there  stepped  on  board  the  yacht  a  gentle- 
man whose  presence  assured  me  that  you,  at  least, 
were  safe  enough.  You  will  credit  that  element  in  a 
strained  situation  when  I  tell  you  that  the  latest  arrival 
was  the  emperor." 

"The  Emperor!"  she  almost  gasped.  "Do  you 
mean  — 

"Sh-s-s-h!  No  names.  If  walls  have  ears,  we  are 
surrounded  by  listeners.  But  I  am  not  mistaken. 
I  saw  him  clearly.  I  heard  Baumgartner's  humble 
greeting.  And  the  really  remarkable  fact  is  that 
Peter  and  you  and  I  share  a  very  important  state 
secret." 

"I  —  I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  bewildered. 

"Of  course  you  don't.  Not  many  people  could 
guess  why  the  most  powerful  monarch  on  the  Continent 
of  Europe  should  wish  to  confer  with  four  of  the  ripest 
scoundrels  that  the  West  African  hinterland  can  pro- 
duce. Nevertheless,  it  is  true." 

64 


Figuero  Makes  a  Discovery 

"Then  that  is  why  Mrs.  Baumgartner  kept  me 
closeted  in  her  state-room  nearly  two  hours?" 

"Yes.     By  the  way,  has  she  engaged  you?" 

"Yes.  She  was  exceedingly  kind.  The  terms  and 
conditions  are  most  generous.  I  rejoin  the  yacht  and 
meet  her  daughter  at  Milford  next  Wednesday.  Then 
we  go  to  Scotland  for  some  shooting,  and  the  Sans 
Souci  returns  to  Portsmouth  to  be  refitted  for  a  cruise 
to  Madeira  and  the  Canaries  during  the  winter  months. 
Altogether,  she  sketched  a  very  agreeable  programme. 
But  you  have  excited  my  curiosity  almost  beyond 
bounds  by  your  description  of  the  goings-on  last  night. 
My  share  of  the  important  state  secret  you  spoke  of 
is  very  slight.  It  consists  in  being  wholly  ignorant 
of  it.  Can  you  enlighten  me?" 

"There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not.  It  will 
invest  the  Baumgartners  with  a  romantic  nimbus 
which,  judging  solely  from  observations,  might  other- 
wise be  lacking." 

The  girl  laughed. 

"They  are  pleasant  people,  but  rather  common- 
place," she  said. 

"Well,  we  can  talk  freely  in  the  train." 

"You  are  not  leaving  Cowes  this  morning  on  my 
account?" 

Perhaps  her  voice  showed  a  degree  of  restraint. 
Though  she  was  beginning  to  like  Captain  Arthur 
Warden  more  than  she  cared  to  admit  even  to  herself, 
he  must  not  be  allowed  to  believe  that  their  friendship 
could  go  to  extremes. 

65 


The  Message 

"If  you  don't  mind  enduring  my  company  as  far  as 
Portsmouth,  I  propose  to  inflict  it  on  you,"  he  explained 
good-humoredly.  "Circumstances  compel  me  to  visit 
London  to-day.  Chris  is  now  waiting  at  the  station 
with  my  bag.  I  would  have  left  the  island  by  the 
first  train  had  I  not  been  lucky  enough  to  see  you 
earlier  and  interpret  your  signal  correctly." 

"I  only  intended  to  tell  you  — 

"The  time  you  would  come  ashore.  Exactly.  Why 
are  you  vexed  because  we  are  fellow-travelers  till 
midday  ?  " 

"I  am  not  vexed.     I  am  delighted." 

"You  expressed  your  delight  with  the  warmth  of  an 
iceberg." 

"Now  you  are  angry  with  me." 

"Furious.  But  please  give  me  your  well-balanced 
opinion.  If  peaches  are  good  in  the  afternoon  should 
they  not  be  better  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"I  could  eat  a  peach,"  she  admitted. 

Figuero,  who  did  not  fail  to  pick  up  the  newspaper 
thrown  aside  by  Warden,  followed  them  without  any 
difficulty.  When  they  stopped  at  a  shop  in  the  main 
street  he  took  the  opportunity  to  buy  a  copy  of  the  torn 
newspaper.  Mingling  with  a  crowd  at  the  station, 
he  saw  them  enter  a  first-class  carriage.  His  acquaint- 
ance with  the  English  language  was  practically  con- 
fined to  the  trader's  tongue  spoken  all  along  the  West 
African  coast,  and  he  had  little  knowledge  of  English 
ways.  But  he  was  shrewd  and  tactful,  and  his  keen 
wits  were  at  their  utmost  tension.  Hence,  he  was  not 

66 


Figuero  Makes  a  Discovery 

at  a  loss  how  to  act  when  he  found  that  a  ticket 
examiner  was  visiting  each  compartment.  Seizing  a 
chance  that  presented  itself,  he  asked  the  man  if 
he  could  inform  him  where  the  pretty  girl  in  blue 
and  the  tall  gentleman  in  the  yachtsman's  clothes 
were  going,  and  a  tip  of  five  shillings  unlocked  the 
official  lips. 

"The  lady  has  a  return  ticket  to  Langton,  in  Ox- 
fordshire, and  the  gentleman  a  single  to  London," 
said  the  man. 

Figuero  did  not  trust  his  memory.  He  asked  the 
name  of  the  first-named  town  again,  and  how  to  spell 
it.  Then  he  wrote  something  in  a  note-book  and 
hurried  back  to  the  harbor.  It  was  essential  that  he 
should  find  out  what  vessels  these  two  people  came 
from,  for  the  presence  of  a  Southern  Nigeria  Deputy 
Commissioner  in  Cowes  was  not  a  coincidence  to  be 
treated  lightly. 

Seated  in  a  tiny  boat  in  the  harbor  was  a  rotund, 
jolly-looking  personage  of  seafaring  aspect.  He  and 
the  boat  were  there  when  the  larger  craft  which  brought 
the  girl  ashore  came  to  the  quay,  but  Figuero  had 
taken  no  notice  of  Evelyn  then,  because  he  had  not  the 
least  notion  that  Warden  was  awaiting  her.  Possibly 
the  sailor-like  individual  in  the  small  boat  could  slake 
his  thirst  for  knowledge. 

So  he  hailed  him. 

"You  lib  for  know  Capt'n  Varden  ?"  he  asked,  with 
an  ingratiating  smile  and  a  hand  suggestively  feeling 
for  a  florin. 

67 


The  Message 

"I  wot?"  said  the  stout  man,  poking  out  a  wooden 
leg  as  he  swung  round  to  face  his  questioner. 

"You  savvy  —  you  know  Capt'n  Varden,  a  mister 
who  walk  here  one-time  —  just  now  —  for  long 
minutes." 

"There's  no  one  of  that  name  in  these  parts,"  replied 
Peter,  who  thought  he  identified  this  swarthy-faced 
inquirer. 

"Den  p'raps  you  tell  name  of  young  lady  — very 
beautiful  young  lady  —  who  lib  for  here  in  ship-boat 
not  much  time  past?  She  wear  blue  dress  an'  brown 
hat  an'  brown  boots." 

"Oh,  everybody  knows  her"  grinned  Peter.  "She's 
Miss  Polly  Perkins,  of  Paddington  Green." 

"You  write  'im  name,  an'  I  dash  you  two  shillin'," 
said  Figuero  eagerly. 

Peter  was  about  to  reply  that  if  any  dashing  was 
to  be  done  he  could  take  a  hand  in  the  game 
himself,  but  he  thought  better  of  it.  Taking  the 
proffered  note-book  and  pencil,  he  wrote  the  words 
laboriously,  and  pocketed  his  reward  with  an  easy  con- 
science. 

"When  Chris  heaves  in  sight  I'll  send  him  back  for 
two  pounds  of  steak,"  he  communed.  "  It  was  honestly 
earned,  an'  I  figure  on  the  Captain  bein'  arf  tickled 
to  death  when  I  tell  'im  how  the  Portygee  played  me 
for  a  sucker." 

Figuero  hastened  to  the  hotel,  saw  that  his  sable 
friends  were  well  supplied  with  gin  and  cigarettes, 
bade  them  lie  perdu  till  he  came  back,  and  made  his 

G8 


Figuero  Makes  a  Discovery 

way  to  the  quay  again.     Peter  was  still  there,  appar- 
ently without  occupation. 

"You  lib  for  take  me  to  yacht  Sans  Souci  an'  I 
dash  you  five  shillin'  ?"  he  said. 

"Right-o,  jump  in,"  cried  Peter,  but  he  added  under 
his  breath,  "Sink  me  if  he  don't  use  a  queer  lingo, 
but  money  talks.  " 

He  used  all  his  artifices  to  get  Figuero  to  discuss 
his  business  in  Cowes,  but  he  met  a  man  who  could 
turn  aside  such  conversational  arrows  without  effort. 
At  any  rate,  Peter  was  now  sure  he  was  not  mistaken 
in  believing  that  his  fare  was  the  "Portuguese  slave- 
trader  and  gin-runner"  spoken  of  by  Warden,  and  he 
had  not  failed  to  notice  the  hotel  which  Figuero  had 
visited  so  hurriedly. 

There  was  a  check  at  the  yacht.  Mr.  Baumgartner 
had  gone  ashore,  but  would  return  for  luncheon.  So 
Peter  demanded  an  extra  half  crown  for  the  return 
journey,  and  met  a  wondering  Chris  with  a  broad 
smile. 

"You're  goin'  shoppin',  sonny,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I've  been  earnin'  good  money  to-day.  Sheer  off  for 
'arf  an  hour,  an'  I'll  tie  up  the  dinghy.  I've  got  a 
notion  that  a  pint  would  be  a  treat." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  while  Senor  Miguel  Figuero 
was  puzzling,  even  alarming  the  millionaire  yacht- 
owner  with  his  broken  talk  of  Captain  Varden,  Dep'ty 
Commissioner  and  leader  of  bush  expeditions  —  alarm- 
ing him  so  thoroughly  that  he  never  dreamed  of  asso- 
ciating Miss  Evelyn  Dane  with  the  Polly  Perkins  of 

69 


The  Message 

Peter's  juvenile  memories  —  Arthur  Warden  himself 
was  driving  in  a  hansom  from  Waterloo  to  the  Foreign 
Office,  and  wondering  what  new  phase  of  existence 
would  open  up  before  him  when  his  news  became  known 
to  the  men  who  control  the  destinies  of  Outer  Britain. 


70 


CHAPTER  V 

A  MAN   AND   A   STORY  —  BOTH    UNEMOTIONAL 

WARDEN,  running  the  gauntlet  of  doorkeepers  and 
other  human  watch-dogs,  was  finally  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  an  Under  Secretary.  To  him  he  detailed 
his  business,  and,  lacking  neither  the  perception  nor 
the  modesty  that  often  characterize  men  of  action,  he 
had  barely  begun  to  speak  ere  he  fancied  that  his 
recital  did  not  command  a  tenth  part  of  the  interest  it 
warranted.  Few  talkers  can  withstand  the  apparent 
boredom  of  a  hearer,  and  Warden  happened  not  to  be 
one  of  the  few.  Condensing  his  account  of  the  pro- 
ceedings on  board  the  Sans  Souci  to  the  barest  sum- 
mary, he  stopped  abruptly. 

The  Under  Secretary,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
rested  his  elbows  on  its  comfortable  arms,  and  pressed 
together  the  tips  of  his  outspread  fingers.  He  scru- 
tinized his  nails,  and  seemingly  was  much  troubled 
because  he  had  not  called  in  at  the  manicurist's  after 
lunch.  Nevertheless,  being  an  Under  Secretary,  he 
owned  suave  manners,  and  the  significance  of  Warden's 
docket-like  sentences  did  not  escape  him. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked,  turning  his  hands  and 
examining  their  backs  intently. 

71 


The  Message 

"Practically  all." 

There  was  silence  for  a  while.  A  clock  ticked  softly 
as  if  to  emphasize  the  peace  that  reigned  on  the  park 
side  of  Whitehall. 

"But  you  make  certain  deductions,  I  take  it?" 
murmured  the  official. 

"I  could  hardly  fail  to  do  that,  knowing  West  Africa 
as  I  do,"  was  the  curt  answer.  Warden  was  really 
annoyed  with  the  man.  Without  wishing  him  any 
positive  evil,  he  wondered  how  far  the  Foreign  Office 
cult  would  carry  such  an  exquisite  through  a  Bush 
campaign,  with  its  wasting  fever,  its  appalling  monot- 
ony, its  pathless  wanderings  midst  foul  swamp  and 
rain-soaked  forest  —  perhaps  a  month's  floundering 
through  quagmire  and  jungle  with  a  speedy  end  under  a 
shower  of  scrap  iron  fired  from  some  bell-mouthed 
cannon. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  favor  me  with  them  ?" 
purred  the  other,  now  absorbed  in  his  palms. 

"If  I  had  a  map — "  began  Warden,  almost  con- 
temptuously. 

The  Under  Secretary  rose  with  a  certain  languid 
elegance.  He  was  really  tired,  having  worked  at  the 
Macedonian  gendarmerie  regulations  until  three  o'clock 
that  morning.  High  on  the  wall,  behind  Warden's 
chair,  were  several  long,  narrow,  mahogany  cases,  each 
fitted  with  a  pendent  cord.  The  Under  Secretary 
pulled  one,  and  a  large  map  of  Africa  fell  from  its 
cover. 

"I  am  fairly  well  acquainted  with  the  Protectorate, 
72 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

but  now  you  can  talk  to  scale,"  he  said,  going  back  to 
his  seat  and  resuming  his  nonchalant  attitude. 

Warden,  still  smarting  under  a  sense  of  the  evident 
insignificance  of  Britain  beyond  the  seas  in  the  eyes  of 
its  home-dwelling  custodians,  spoke  brusquely  enough. 

"On  the  Benue  river,  a  tributary  of  the  Niger,  four 
hundred  miles  from  the  coast,"  he  said,  "you  will  find 
the  town  of  Gire  in  the  Yola  District.  You  see  it  is 
just  within  the  sphere  of  British  influence.  Germany 
claims  the  opposite  bank.  Well,  Oku  is  near  Gire. 
Oku  is  not  on  the  map " 

"I  put  it  there  myself  yesterday,"  broke  in  the 
Under  Secretary. 

Warden  was  gifted  with  keen  sight.  He  swung 
round  and  gave  the  huge  sheet  on  the  wall  a  closer 
scrutiny.  A  great  many  corrections  had  been  made  on 
it  with  pen  and  ink.  They  were  carried  out  so  neatly 
that  they  resembled  the  engraved  lettering. 

For  an  instant  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  Under  Secre- 
tary; thenceforth  a  better  understanding  reigned. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "Since  you  gave 
attention  to  the  position  of  Oku  so  recently,  I  am  half 
inclined  to  believe  that  not  only  my  information  but 
my  opinions  are  forestalled." 

"We  have  been  at  cross  purposes,"  murmured  the 
tired  voice.  "You  are  Captain  Arthur  Warden,  who 
commanded  the  Oku  punitive  expedition  thirteen 
months  ago.  Since  early  yesterday  morning  the 
Colonial  Office,  at  my  request,  has  been  trying  to 
discover  your  whereabouts  —  trying  in  vain,  I  gather 

73 


The  Message 

—  or  you  would  have  mentioned  the  fact.  I  really 
wished  to  consult  you  with  reference  to  this  very  topic. 
It  is  all  the  more  gratifying  that  chance  should  have 
led  you  to  be  a  witness  of  events  which  were  surmises 
on  our  part,  and  that  your  sense  of  duty  should  bring 
you  here  at  the  earliest  possible  moment." 

Warden  positively  blushed.  It  was  a  relief  that  the 
Under  Secretary  was  obviously  inclined  to  visit  his 
manicurist  that  afternoon  rather  than  wait  till  the 
morrow.  Such  preoccupation  gave  him  time  to  re- 
cover. But  he  devoted  no  more  time  to  silent  theories 
anent  the  disgraceful  apathy  of  the  home  authorities 
with  reference  to  West  African  affairs. 

"I  cannot  insist  too  strongly  on  the  efforts  that  are 
being  made  by  our  neighbors  to  undermine  British 
influence  in  that  quarter,"  he  said.  "Their  traders 
pander  to  native  excesses  and  humor  their  prejudices. 
Their  pioneers  are  constantly  pushing  northward 
toward  the  shores  of  Lake  Tchad.  Arms  and  ammu- 
nition are  being  smuggled  across  the  boundary  at 
many  points.  Preparations  are  quietly  in  progress  for 
a  transfer  of  power  if  ever  British  authority  shows  signs 
of  weakening.  Therefore,  I  draw  the  worst  auguries 
from  the  presence  in  Cowes  of  a  clever  and  unscrupu- 
lous filibuster  like  Figuero,  especially  when  he  acts  as 
bear-leader  to  three  disaffected  chiefs.  Oku,  as  you 
know,  is  an  insignificant  place,  but  it  has  one  supreme 
attribute  that  gives  it  among  the  negroes  the  importance 
of  Mecca  in  the  Mohammedan  world.  It  is  the  center 
of  African  witchcraft.  Its  ju-ju  men  are  the  most 

74 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

noted  in  the  whole  continent.  Their  fetish  is  deadly 
and  irresistible.  They  can  compass  the  ruin  of  tribal 
leaders  who  are  immeasurably  more  wealthy  and 
powerful  than  any  of  their  own  men.  I  do  not  pretend 
to  explain  the  reason  —  I  can  only  state  the  fact  — 
but  there  can  be  no  gainsaying  the  simple  truth  that  if 
men  of  Oku  place  their  ban  on  any  tribe  or  individual, 
that  tribe  or  that  man  is  doomed." 

"Can  you  give  instances?" 

"Yes.  As  far  away  as  the  river  Akini,  in  the  Yoruba 
District"  —  and  this  time  Warden  did  not  point  to  the 
map,  though  his  words  bridged  six  hundred  miles  — 
"there  was  a  quarrel  between  the  up-country  traders 
and  the  shippers  at  Lagos.  The  merchants  in  the 
interior  tried  to  close  the  trade  routes,  but  the  local 
chiefs  refused  to  help  them.  By  some  means  the 
traders  secured  the  Oku  ban  on  their  side.  The 
Yoruba  natives  resisted  it. 

"By  Jove!  both  they  and  the  factors  at  Lagos  were 
glad  enough  to  come  to  heel  when  every  ounce  of  stuff 
was  diverted  into  French  Dahomey.  There  was  no 
overt  act  or  threat.  Oku  methods  are  too  clever  for 
that.  The  authorities  were  powerless.  Hunger  co- 
erced the  natives,  and  financial  loss  brought  the  people 
on  the  coast  to  terms.  And  this  took  place  where  we 
were  paramount!  Heaven  only  knows  what  excesses 
the  Oku  fetish  has  caused  in  inter-tribal  wars.  Why, 
when  I  attacked  them,  I  had  to  break  with  my  own 
hands  every  ju-ju  token  on  the  road.  Not  even  our 
Hausa  troops  would  pass  them  otherwise." 

75 


The  Message 

"They  had  no  ill  effect  on  you,  then  ?"  said  the  other, 
smiling  a  little. 

"None  —  at  present." 

Warden  himself  was  surprised  when  his  lips  framed 
the  qualification.  For  no  assignable  cause  his  mind 
traveled  to  the  lowering  face  on  the  gourd,  then  repos- 
ing in  his  portmanteau  at  Waterloo  Station,  and  he 
remembered  the  curled  scrap  of  tattooed  skin  in  his 
pocket.  He  had  not  mentioned  the  calabash  to  the 
official.  Though  it  bore  curiously  on  the  visit  of  the 
men  of  Oku  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  he  believed  that  such 
a  far-fetched  incident  would  weaken  his  statements. 
Since  he  was  inclined  at  first  to  err  so  greatly  in  his 
estimate  of  the  Under  Secretary's  knowledge  of  West 
African  politics,  he  was  now  more  resolved  than  ever 
not  to  bring  an  extravagant  toy  into  a  serious  dis- 
cussion. Any  reference  to  it  would  be  ludicrously 
out  of  place.  He  was  beginning  to  entertain  a  deep 
and  abiding  respect  for  the  Foreign  Office  and  its 
denizens. 

The  Under  Secretary  asked  a  few  additional  ques- 
tions before  he  rose  to  fold  up  the  map.  Warden  took 
the  hint,  and  was  about  to  depart  when  he  received  an 
unlooked-for  piece  of  news. 

"By  the  way,  it  is  almost  a  certainty  that  Count  von 
Rippenbach  accompanied  the  Emperor  in  the  visit 
paid  to  the  Sans  Souci?"  said  the  official. 

"I  assume  his  identity  solely  from  paragraphs  in 
the  newspapers." 

"It  will  interest  you  to  learn  that  the  Count  has  just 
76 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

returned  from  an  exploring  and  hunting  trip  in  the 
Tuburi  region." 

Now,  Tuburi  lies  in  the  no-man's  land  that  separates 
Lake  Tchad  from  German  West  Africa,  and  Warden 
met  the  Under  Secretary's  bored  glance  a  second  tune 
with  quick  comprehension. 

"I  think,"  went  on  the  quiet  voice,  "I  think  it  would 
be  well  if  you  kept  the  Colonial  Office  posted  as  to 
your  movements  during  the  remainder  of  your  fur- 
lough. Personally,  I  expect  no  immediate  develop- 
ments. The  Emperor  is  a  busy  man.  He  can  only 
devote  half  an  hour  each  year  to  affairs  that  affect  the 
Niger.  But,  keep  in  touch.  You  may  be  wanted. 
I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you.  One  learns  so  much 
from  the  men  who  have  passed  their  active  lives  in 
lands  which  one  has  never  seen  except  in  dreams.  I 
dream  here  sometimes,  in  front  of  that  map  —  and  its 
companions.  Oh,  I  had  almost  forgotten.  Do  you 
know  Mr.  Baumgartner  ?  " 

"Only  by  sight." 

"That  is  useful.  It  might  help  if  you  were  to  meet 
him  in  some  unexpected  locality.  And  his  yacht,  the 
Sans  Souci,  you  have  noted  her  main  features,  such  as 
the  exact  number  of  windows  in  her  deck  houses,  or 
the  cabin  ports  fore  and  aft  of  the  bridge?" 

"I  watched  her  closely  many  hours  last  night,  but  I 
fear  I  missed  those  precise  details,"  laughed  Warden. 
"I  shall  correct  the  lapse  at  the  earliest  opportunity." 

"That  sort  of  definite  fact  assists  one's  judgment. 
Paint  and  rig  can  be  altered,  but  structural  features 

77 


The  Message 

remain.  I  recall  the  case  of  the  Sylph,  a  foreign  cargo- 
steamer  loaded  to  the  funnel  with  dynamite,  and  about 
to  pass  Port  Said  at  a  time  when  it  was  peculiarly 
important  to  the  British  fleet  that  the  canal  should 
remain  open.  She  resembled  a  hundred  other  dis- 
reputable-looking craft  of  her  class,  but  a  lieutenant  on 
the  Cossack  had  seen  her  a  year  earlier  at  Bombay,  and 
noticed  a  dent  in  the  plates  on  the  port  bow.  His 
haphazard  memory  settled  a  delicate  and  complicated 
discussion  in  Pekin.  Good  morning!  Don't  forget 
to  send  your  address." 

Standing  in  Downing  Street  to  light  a  cigar,  Warden 
glanced  up  at  the  stately  building  he  had  just  quitted. 
His  views  on  "red-tape"  officialdom  had  undergone  a 
rapid  change  during  the  past  hour.  It  was  borne  in 
on  him  that  generations  of  men  like  himself  had  come 
from  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  that  storehouse  of  secrets, 
and  each  was  convinced  that  he  alone  could  reveal  the 
solemn  tidings  which  might  be  the  forerunner  of  modern 
Europe's  Battle  of  Armageddon.  And  the  Under 
Secretary  was  called  on  to  hear  every  prophet !  From 
such  a  standpoint  the  presence  in  England  of  a 
half-caste  Portuguese  and  three  full-blooded  negroes 
dwindled  to  insignificance.  True,  the  Under  Secre- 
tary had  listened,  and  Warden  almost  shivered  when  he 
realized  how  narrow  was  his  escape  from  committing 
the  grave  error  of  discounting  his  hearer's  sympathy 
and  measure  of  comprehension. 

It  was  not  his  business  to  ask  questions,  but  he 
gathered  that  others  than  himself  were  alive  to  the 

78 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

dangers  that  might  spring  from  a  conference  between 
semi-rebellious  subjects  of  Britain  in  West  Africa  and 
the  ruler  of  a  mighty  nation  pent  within  cramped 
confines  for  want  of  colonies.  Oddly  enough,  the 
bent  plates  of  the  dynamite-laden  Sylph  suggested  a 
strange  connection  between  the  carved  gourd  and  the 
strained  position  of  affairs  in  the  Cameroons.  He  had 
no  manner  of  doubt  that  when  the  royal  yacht  crashed 
into  a  sunken  wreck  the  previous  day  it  liberated  the 
calabash,  which  forthwith  drifted  into  the  Solent,  and 
escaped  notice  until  discovered  by  Evelyn  Dane. 
Suppose  she  had  not  seen  it?  All  their  subsequent 
actions  would  have  been  affected.  He  might  never 
have  known  of  the  strange  gathering  on  board  the 
yacht. 

"Queer  train  of  circumstances!"  he  thought.  "If 
only  I  could  use  a  pen,  what  a  romance  I  might  con- 
trive with  that  as  a  beginning  —  and  this,"  he  added, 
when,  in  searching  for  a  box  of  matches,  his  fingers 
closed  on  the  crisp  roll  of  skin,  "this  as  the  frontispiece." 

He  hailed  a  cab.  He  wanted  to  open  the  bag  left  at 
the  railway  terminus  and  deposit  the  gourd  with  the 
rest  of  his  belongings  in  a  small  flat  hired  months  ago 
as  a  pied-a-terre.  His  stock  of  cigars  needed  replenish- 
ing, and  the  weird  document  that  had  just  made  its 
presence  felt  reminded  him  that  a  Portuguese  dic- 
tionary was  lacking.  A  glance  at  his  watch  showed 
that  he  could  not  reach  Cowes  until  a  late  hour,  so  he 
resolved  to  pass  the  night  in  town,  go  to  a  theatre,  and 
return  to  the  Nancy  next  morning. 

79 


The  Message 

From  Waterloo,  therefore,  he  telegraphed  to  Peter: 

"Remaining  here  until  to-morrow.  Keep  your 
weather  eye  open." 

He  was  sure  that  his  friendly  factotum  would  grasp 
the  full  meaning  of  the  second  sentence,  but  he  would 
have  been  the  most  surprised  man  in  London  could  he 
have  known  that  Peter  at  that  moment  was  plying  the 
three  men  of  Oku  with  gin. 

An  accident  brought  about  a  slight  variation  of  his 
plans.  It  happened  that  no  other  passenger  claimed 
the  attention  of  the  luggage-room  clerk  at  Waterloo 
when  the  portmanteau  was  unlocked.  Warden  de- 
posited the  gourd  on  the  zinc  counter  and  groped 
among  his  belongings  for  something  to  cover  it. 

The  attendant,  who  was  watching  him,  uttered  a 
gasping  exclamation. 

"Good  Lord!  sir,"  he  cried,  "what  sort  of  horrible 
thing  is  that?" 

It  was  then  that  a  hitherto  undiscovered  property 
in  the  gourd  brought  itself  in  evidence.  No  sooner 
was  it  placed  on  a  smooth  surface  than  it  promptly 
wobbled  into  a  half  upright  position,  with  the  negro's 
face  on  the  upper  part.  Chance  could  hardly  accom- 
plish this  movement.  It  was  the  designer's  intent, 
brought  about  by  concealed  weights,  and  Warden 
instantly  remembered  that  the  calabash  floated  much 
deeper  in  the  water  than  would  have  been  the  case 
otherwise.  A  shaft  of  sunlight  came  through  a  broken 
pane  in  the  glass  roof,  and  fell  directly  on  the  scowling 
apparition. 

80 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

The  effect  on  the  clerk  was  phenomenal.  He  grew 
livid,  and  backed  away  from  the  counter. 

"Well,  that's  the  limit,"  he  muttered.  "If  I'd  ha' 
known  old  Hoof  an'  Horns  was  so  near  to  me  since  I 
kem  on  duty  I'd  'ave  gone  sick." 

Warden  laughed,  stuffed  the  gourd  into  the  port- 
manteau, and  hurried  to  the  waiting  cab.  So  pre- 
occupied was  he  with  other  matters,  he  had  not  realized 
earlier  that  under  the  new  conditions  he  would  be  in 
need  of  some  portion  of  the  bag's  contents. 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  find  a  'Portuguese-English 
dictionary.  He  tried  half  a  dozen  booksellers  in  vain, 
but  ultimately  unearthed  a  serviceable  volume  at  a 
second-hand  shop  in  Charing  Cross  Road.  By  the 
time  he  reached  his  flat,  five  o'clock,  he  was  desperately 
hungry,  having  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast. 

His  rooms  looked  dismal,  and  an  apologetic  hall- 
porter  explained  that  if  the  gentleman  'ad  on'y  sent  a 
wire  he'd  ha'  tidied  the  place  up  a  bit.  Warden  went 
to  a  restaurant,  dined  well,  and  returned  at  half-past 
six.  There  was  still  an  hour  or  more  of  daylight,  so 
he  began  to  decipher  the  unsolved  section  of  the  strange 
manuscript.  It  was  a  longer  job  than  he  anticipated. 
Arabic  characters,  being  largely  phonetic,  do  not  give 
a  literal  rendering  of  European  words.  Many  pages 
of  the  dictionary  were  searched  ere  he  hit  upon  the 
exact  rendering  of  the  blurred  phrases.  But  the  quest 
fascinated  him.  Before  it  was  ended  he  found  it 
necessary  to  consult  an  atlas  and  an  encyclopedia. 

At  last,  allowing  for  a  margin  of  error  in  his  guesses 
81 


at  tenses  and  other  variants  of  root  words,  he  com- 
pleted a  translation,  and  this  is  what  he  had  written : 

"I,  Domenico  Garcia,  artist  and  musician  in  the 
city  of  Lisbon,  am  justly  punished  for  my  sins.  Being 
desperate  and  needy,  I  joined  in  an  attack  on  the  Santo 
Espirito,  homeward-bound  from  the  Indies,  and  helped 
in  the  slaying  of  all  the  ship's  company.  We  attacked 
her  when  she  left  Lisbon  on  the  voyage  to  Oporto,  but 
a  great  gale  from  the  northeast  drove  us  far  out  to  sea, 
and  then  the  wind  veered  to  the  northwest,  and  cast 
us  miserably  ashore  on  the  African  desert.  We  abode 
there  many  days,  and  saw  no  means  of  succor,  so  we 
buried  most  of  our  ill-gotten  gains  in  that  unknown 
place  and  turned  our  faces  to  the  north,  thinking  to 
find  a  Portuguese  settlement  in  the  land  of  the  Moors. 
We  died  one  by  one,  some  from  hunger,  some  from 
fever,  some  from  the  ravages  of  wild  beasts.  Six  out 
of  fifty-four  men  reached  the  town  of  Rabat  in  the 
train  of  a  Moorish  merchant.  There  we  were  sold  as 
slaves.  Three  were  dead  within  a  month.  WTe  who 
were  left,  Tommaso  Rodriguez,  Manoel  of  Serpa  and 
myself,  were  sent  as  presents  over  the  caravan  road  to 
that  cruel  tyrant  the  black  king  of  Benin.  Rodriguez 
went  mad,  and  was  flayed  alive  for  refusing  to  worship 
a  heathen  god.  This  message  is  written  on  his  skin. 
Manoel  of  Serpa  was  drowned  in  the  river  which  these 
monsters  term  'Mother  of  Waters,'  while  I,  though  my 
life  is  preserved  by  reason  of  my  skill  in  carving,  am 
utterly  bereft  of  hope  in  this  world  while  filled  with 
fear  of  God's  justice  in  the  next.  Christian,  you  who 

82 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

read  these  words,  for  which  I  have  devised  a  cunning 
receptacle  that  may  long  survive  me,  if  you  would  help 
an  erring  brother  to  regain  salvation,  go  yourself,  or 
send  some  trusty  person,  to  the  above-named  town  of 
Rabat.  I  hid  there  a  great  ruby  which  I  took  from  a 
golden  pyx  found  on  board  the  Santo  Espirito.  It  lies 
in  the  Hassan  Tower,  the  tomb  of  an  infidel  buried 
outside  the  walls.  A  causeway  leads  to  the  door, 
which  is  three  cubits  from  the  ground,  and  my  ruby 
is  in  a  deep  crack  between  the  center  stones  of  the  sill 
of  the  third  window  on  the  left.  I  placed  it  there  for 
safety,  thinking  that  perchance  I  might  escape  and 
secure  it  again.  Friend,  I  am  many  marches  from 
Rabat  but  few  from  death.  Find  that  gem  of  great 
price,  and  cause  masses  to  be  said  for  my  soul  in  the 
Cathedral  of  the  Patriarch  at  Lisbon.  Inscribed  by 
me,  the  unhappy  Domenico  Garcia,  in  the  year  1634, 
to  pleasure  that  loathly  barbarian,  M'Wanga,  King  of 
Benin,  who  holds  that  writing  on  a  white  man's  skin  is 
most  potent  magic  against  fever,  even  while  I,  the 
alchemist,  am  yielding  to  its  ravages." 

The  violet-tinted  gloom  that  marks  the  close  of  a 
fine  summer's  day  in  London  was  filling  the  room 
with  its  shadows  when  Warden  had  written  the  last 
words  of  a  fair  copy.  He  lit  a  cigar,  placed  an  easy 
chair  so  that  he  might  sit  with  his  back  to  the  window, 
and  was  about  to  analyze  the  queer  document  which 
had  fallen  into  his  hands  in  such  an  extraordinary 
manner  when  he  noticed  that  the  face  on  the  gourd, 
though  tilted  on  the  table  exactly  in  the  same  fashion 

83 


The  Message 

as  on  the  counter  of  the  luggage-room  at  Waterloo, 
appeared  to  be  watching  him.  Now,  no  man  of  strong 
nervous  power  likes  to  feel  startled,  and  that  the  stealthy 
menace  in  those  evil  eyes  was  startling  he  did  not 
attempt  to  deny.  He  had  not  noticed  previously  that 
—  no  matter  what  the  angle  —  so  long  as  the  eyes 
were  visible  they  seemed  to  look  fixedly  at  the  beholder. 
Thinking  that  the  waning  light  was  deceptive,  he 
sprang  up  and  built  some  books  into  a  V-shaped  sup- 
port that  enabled  him  to  set  the  scowling  face  in  many 
positions.  The  varying  tests  all  had  the  same  result. 
The  snake-like  glance  followed  him  everywhere.  The 
very  orbs  appeared  to  turn  in  the  head.  In  the  deep- 
ening twilight  they  seemed  to  gleam  with  a  dull  fire, 
and  Warden  was  absolutely  forced  to  reason  himself 
out  of  the  expectation  that  soon  those  brutal  lips  would 
open  and  overwhelm  him  with  threats. 

"Confound  you!"  he  muttered,  scarce  knowing 
whether  to  laugh  or  fly  into  a  rage  at  the  foolish  fancy 
that  led  him  to  address  a  carven  mask,  "if  you  looked 
that  way  at  poor  Domenico  Garcia  it  is  not  surprising 
that  he  should  use  his  comrade's  skin  as  vellum.  You 
black  beauty!  Are  there  any  of  your  breed  left  in 
Nigeria,  I  wonder?" 

It  demanded  almost  an  effort  to  sink  into  the  chair 
and  disregard  the  sinister  object  glaring  at  him  from 
the  table.  He  picked  up  the  sheet  of  note-paper 
containing  the  translation  and  set  his  mind  to  its  proper 
understanding.  While  intent  on  the  intricacies  of 
cases  and  genders  —  difficulties  intensified  by  the  use 

84 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

of  archaic  phrases  and  the  Arabic  script  —  he  had 
given  but  passing  thought  to  the  general  drift  of  the 
words.  True,  the  reference  to  a  river  named  "Mother 
of  Waters"  was  amazing,  because  that  was  the  native 
name  for  the  Benue,  while  a  search  through  the  en- 
cyclopedia showed  that  the  seaport  town  of  Rabat,  in 
Morocco,  was  famous  for  its  ruined  monuments.  But 
now,  pondering  each  sentence,  he  became  alive  to  their 
tremendous  significance.  Their  very  simplicity  was 
the  best  witness  to  the  underlying  tragedy.  A  man 
who  dismissed  the  massacre  on  board  the  Santo  Espirito 
with  the  curt  statement  that  he  "helped  in  the  slaying 
of  all  the  ship's  company, "was  not  likely  to  use  unneces- 
sary adjectives.  "Six  out  of  fifty-four"  was  also  a 
summary  magnificent  in  its  brevity.  Garcia  reached 
the  sheer  apex  of  the  direct  narrative  style  when  he 
said  that  he  and  Rodriguez,  and  Manoel  of  Serpa,  were 
sent  as  presents  to  the  King  of  Benin  "over  the  caravan 
route."  Those  four  words  covered  a  journey  of  2500 
miles  across  mountains,  deserts,  and  jungle-covered 
swamps,  where  road  there  was  none,  and  towns,  even 
the  most  wretched  communities  of  savages,  were  hun- 
dreds of  miles  apart.  The  track  probably  led  through 
Bel  Abbas,  Taudeni,  and  Timbuctu,  traversing  the 
very  heart  of  the  Sahara,  a  region  so  forbidding  and 
inhospitable  that  even  to-day  it  remains  one  of  the 
secret  places  of  the  world. 

And  again,  there  was  a  grim  humor  discoverable  in 
a  man  who,  concentrating  his  life's  story  into  so  few 
words,  could  yet  indulge  his  mordant  wit  by  writing: 

85 


The  Message 

"I  am  many  marches  from  Rabat  but  few  from  death," 
and  even  poke  a  bitter  jest  at  M'Wanga  for  his  fan- 
tastic notion  of  a  specific  against  backwater  fever! 

It  was  a  forceful  picture  that  Warden  conceived 
when  in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  the  "artist  and  musi- 
cian," and  ex-pirate,  too,  sitting  in  the  shade  of  a  giant 
tree  near  the  king's  hut,  and  pricking  out  with  needle 
and  dyes,  on  parchment  torn  from  the  back  of  his 
dead  comrade,  the  record  of  those  terrible  years.  He 
could  limn  the  hollow  cheeks,  the  wasted  frame,  the 
fever-light  in  the  dark  eyes,  and  the  melancholy  smile 
that  must  have  lifted  the  cloud  of  suffering  for  a  little 
while  when  the  concluding  lines  were  written.  Warden 
knew  the  scene  so  intimately  that  if  he  put  pencil  to 
paper,  and  Garcia's  long-forgotten  shade  were  per- 
mitted to  testify  to  the  accuracy  of  the  sketch,  there 
could  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that  imagination  must 
have  come  very  near  the  truth. 

Though  the  Portuguese  did  not  say  as  much,  it  was 
not  hard  to  guess  that  the  "cunning  receptacle"  he 
had  devised  for  his  last  manuscript  was  the  graven 
image  of  M'Wanga  himself.  His  artist's  eye  had  caught 
the  possibilities  of  the  curiously-shaped  gourd,  and, 
as  he  said  in  his  own  way,  he  had  used  his  "skill  in 
carving"  as  a  means  of  preservation  —  perhaps  of 
securing  a  certain  measure  of  good  treatment.  No 
doubt  the  King  of  Benin,  sitting  on  the  state  stool  in 
front  of  his  palace  of  mats  and  wattle,  was  greatly 
flattered  by  the  portrait.  He  would  appreciate  its 
realism  while  missing  its  subtle  irony.  In  the  circle 

86 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

of  subordinate  chiefs  and  witch-doctors  surrounding 
him  there  must  have  been  many  who  hated  the  white 
man  because  he  won  the  royal  favor  even  for  a  moment. 
But  they  would  be  wary,  and  join  loudly  in  the  chorus 
of  praise,  for  there  was  a  grove  near  by  in  which  the 
latest  victims  of  M'Wanga's  wrath  fouled  the  air  with 
their  dead  bodies. 

Garcia's  description  of  the  black  ruler  as  "King  of 
Benin "  puzzled  Warden  at  first.  Modern  Benin  was 
far  enough  removed  from  Oku  and  the  upper  reaches 
of  the  Benue  to  render  the  title  vague  and  seemingly 
mistaken. 

Yet  Garcia's  sparse  record  already  promised  an 
astounding  truthfulness.  Warden  was  quite  sure  he 
would  discover  some  contemporary  proof  of  the  loss 
of  the  Santo  Espirito.  He  believed  that  any  one  who 
visited  the  tomb  of  Hassan  beyond  the  walls  of  Rabat 
would  find  the  ruby  placed  there  nearly  one  hundred 
and  eighty  years  ago.  Why,  then,  should  the  chron- 
icler err  in  his  allusion  to  M'Wanga's  rank  ? 

M'Wanga's  counterfeit  answered  the  unspoken  ques- 
tion. Warden  happened  to  look  at  the  calabash,  now 
hardly  visible  in  the  ever-increasing  darkness.  But 
the  cruel  eyes  still  glinted  at  him,  and  he  could  almost 
discover  a  sardonic  grin  on  the  thick  lips. 

"By  Jove!"  he  muttered,  "When  that  fellow  reigned 
in  Benin  his  empire  spread  as  far  as  his  reputation. 
I  have  no  manner  of  doubt  but  he  lived  in  the  interior, 
where  it  is  healthier  than  on  the  coast.  Yes,  you  man- 
devil!"  he  added,  leaping  excitedly  to  his  feet  as  a 

87 


The  Message 

new  and  discomforting  thought  possessed  him.  "You 
did  mischief  enough  during  your  evil  life,  and  now  you 
have  resurrected  yourself  just  in  time  to  take  a  silent 
part  in  more  of  the  wild  doings  in  which  you  would 
have  gloried." 

For  he  was  spurred  to  this  sudden  outburst  by  the 
knowledge  that  not  only  did  political  trouble  loom 
across  the  West  African  sky,  but  that  he,  and  he  only, 
was  the  Christian  and  friend  to  whom  Domenico 
Garcia  made  his  dying  appeal.  There  was  a  ruby  of 
great  price  to  be  won,  and  masses  to  be  said  in  the 
Cathedral  of  the  Patriarch  at  Lisbon.  Could  he  refuse 
to  fulfil  the  terms  of  that  pathetic  bequest?  He  had 
nearly  six  months  of  unexpired  furlough  at  disposal, 
and  the  Under  Secretary  did  not  appear  to  have  any 
dread  of  immediate  developments  in  Nigeria,  such  as 
would  demand  the  recall  of  officers  to  their  duties. 
What  argument  would  convince  his  own  mind  that  he 
might  justly  decline  an  almost  intolerable  legacy  ? 

Well,  he  would  go  into  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  doubt- 
ful problem  later.  He  was  not  a  rich  man,  and  the 
journey  to  Rabat  and  back  would  probably  be  very 
expensive.  Certainly  that  ruby  would  look  very  well 
on  the  white  throat  of  Evelyn  Dane,  though  people 
might  well  wonder  how  the  wife  of  a  poorly-paid  official 
could  afford  to  wear  a  "gem  of  great  price." 

The  conceit  so  tickled  him  that  he  laughed,  laughed 
all  the  louder,  perhaps,  because  he  was  conscious  that 
the  black  king  of  Benin  was  scoffing  at  him  maliciously 
from  the  table.  But  the  glee  died  in  his  throat  when 

88 


A  Man  and  a  Story  —  Both  Unemotional 

a  thunderous  double  rat-tat  shook  the  outer  door  of 
the  flat,  and  Warden  was  prepared,  for  one  thrilling 
instant,  to  fight  a  legion  of  ghosts  and  demons  if  need 
be.  Then  his  scattered  wits  told  him  that  His  Majesty's 
post  demanded  his  appearance.  He  struck  a  match, 
lighted  the  gas,  and  went  to  the  door,  where  a  small 
boy,  who  seemed  to  be  physically  incapable  of  using  a 
knocker  with  such  vehemence,  handed  him  a  telegram. 

It  was  brief  and  to  the  point: 

"Sans  Souci  sailed  3  P.M.  Niggers  and  friend  left 
for  London  6.30.  Thought  you  would  like  to  know. 
Peter." 


89 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEREIN   WARDEN   SETS   A   NEW   COURSE 

WARDEN'S  theatre-going  that  evening  resolved  itself 
into  a  stroll  in  the  park  and  an  early  return  to  his 
chambers.  Before  going  out,  he  had  thrown  a  towel 
over  the  calabash,  and  told  the  porter  not  to  touch 
anything  in  the  sitting-room.  The  plan  was  effective; 
the  man  of  Oku  created  no  disturbance. 

Oddly  enough,  the  young  officer  was  now  beginning 
to  understand  the  mesmeric  influence  which  Evelyn 
Dane  and  Peter  Evans  acknowledged  instantly  — 
and  with  this  admission  came  the  consciousness  that 
the  negro's  mask  lost  its  power  unless  actually  in  evi- 
dence. Hence,  none  of  the  vapors  and  misty  fancies 
of  the  preceding  hours  interfered  with  his  rest.  He 
slept  soundly,  rose  betimes,  and  ate  a  good  breakfast 
—  unfailing  signs  these  of  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound 
body. 

Yet  he  might  have  been  puzzled  if  called  on  to  explain 
why  he  deliberately  placed  the  gourd  in  a  sponge-bag, 
and  put  it  in  his  portmanteau  before  returning  to  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  His  action  was,  perhaps,  governed  by 
some  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things.  If  it  were  ordained 
that  the  presentment  of  the  dead  and  gone  M'Wanga 

90 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

should  scowl  again  at  the  world  during  a  period  when 
the  fortunes  of  his  country  were  at  stake,  it  was  not  for 
Warden  to  disobey  the  silent  edict.  He  was  not  swayed 
solely  by  idle  impulse.  In  bringing  the  head  to  Lon- 
don he  meant  to  please  the  only  people  who  knew  of 
its  existence;  he  ignored  their  wishes  now  because  he 
felt  a  tugging  at  his  heart-strings  when  his  thoughts 
reverted  to  the  wretched  history  of  Domenico  Garcia. 
The  instant  he  arrived  at  this  decision  it  ceased  to 
trouble  his  mind  further. 

Before  going  to  the  station  he  made  a  few  purchases, 
and,  being  near  Pall  Mall,  thought  he  would  secure 
any  letters  that  might  happen  to  be  at  his  club.  Among 
others,  he  found  a  pressing  invitation  from  Lady  Hil- 
bury  asking  him  to  call  when  in  London.  Now,  he 
was,  in  a  degree,  a  protege  of  her  ladyship.  Her  hus- 
band was  a  former  governor  of  Nigeria,  and  her  friendly 
assistance  had  helped,  in  the  first  instance,  to  lift 
Warden  out  of  the  ruck  of  youngsters  who  yearly 
replete  the  ranks  of  officialdom  in  West  Africa.  It  was 
more  than  probable  that  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Hilbury 
would  be  out  of  town,  and  a  note  written  at  their  resi- 
dence would  show  that  he  visited  them  at  the  earliest 
opportunity. 

To  his  surprise,  Lady  Hilbury  was  at  home,  and 
insisted  that  he  should  stay  for  luncheon. 

Behold,  then,  Warden  installed  in  a  cozy  morning- 
room,  exchanging  gossip  with  his  hostess,  and  his 
parcels  and  portmanteau  given  over  to  the  butler's 
care. 

91 


The  Message 

He  was  irrevocably  committed  to  an  afternoon  train 
when  Lady  Hilbury  electrified  him  with  a  morsel  of 
news  that  was  as  unexpected  as  any  other  shock  that 
had  befallen  him  of  late. 

"By  the  way,  an  old  friend  of  yours  is  staying  with 
me,"  she  said  —  "Mrs.  Laing  —  you  knew  her  better 
as  Rosamund  Miller,  I  fancy?" 

Warden  schooled  his  features  into  a  passable  imita- 
tion of  a  smile.  Mrs.  Laing  —  the  pretty,  irresponsible 
Rosamund  Miller  —  was  the  last  person  he  wished  to 
encounter,  but  he  was  quick  to  see  the  twinkle  in  Lady 
Hilbury's  eyes,  and  he  accepted  the  inevitable. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  renew  the  acquaintance,"  he  said. 
"It  was  broken  off  rather  abruptly  —  at  Government 
House  if  I  remember  aright." 

"Poor  Rosamund!  That  was  her  mother's  con- 
triving. She  never  really  liked  Laing,  but  he  was 
what  people  term  'a  good  match,'  and  he  has  at  least 
justified  that  estimate  of  his  worth  by  dying  suddenly 
and  leaving  his  widow  nearly  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds." 

"A  most  considerate  man,"  murmured  Warden. 

"Then  you  have  not  forgiven  her?" 

"Forgive!  WTiat  a  harsh  word  from  your  lips. 
Pray  consider.  On  your  own  estimate  she  owes  me 
two  hundred  thousand  thanks." 

"Arthur,  I  don't  like  you  as  a  cynic.  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  mother.  Indeed,  it  was  my  love 
for  your  mother  that  first  led  me  to  take  an  interest  in 
your  welfare,  and  I  should  be  doing  wrong  if  I  hid 

92 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

from  you  the  fact  that  it  nearly  broke  Rosamund's 
heart  to  throw  you  over." 

"I  trust  the  lapse  of  years  has  healed  the  fracture," 
he  said. 

Lady  Hilbury  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
She  remembered  the  white-faced  subaltern  who  heard, 
at  her  hospitable  table,  that  Rosamund  Miller  had 
married  a  wealthy  planter  at  Madeira  —  married  him 
suddenly,  within  a  month  after  her  departure  from  the 
coast. 

"Is  there  another  woman  ?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"Not  single  spies  but  whole  battalions.  How  I 
have  managed  to  escape  their  combined  charms  all 
these  years  is  a  marvel.  Seriously,  Lady  Hilbury,  you 
would  not  have  me  take  a  wife  to  my  special  swamp, 
and  I  would  not  care  to  leave  her  in  England  drawing 
half  my  pay.  All  my  little  luxuries  would  vanish  at 
one  fell  swoop." 

"I  would  like  to  see  you  happy,  Arthur,  and  there  is 
always  the  possibility  of  marrying  some  one  who  would 
demand  no  sacrifices." 

"Is  Mrs.  Laing  out?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes.     Of  course  you  want  to  meet  her  again  ? " 

"I  think  not.  I  don't  mean  to  be  unkind,  but  the 
tender  recollections  I  cherish  are  too  dear  to  be  replaced 
by  a  fresh  set." 

"That  sounds  theatrical  —  a  sarcastic  line  out  of 
some  comedy  of  manners.  If  so,  you  shall  have  a  wider 
stage  than  my  boudoir.  We  lunch  at  one  o'clock. 
It  is  12.45  now,  and  Rosamund  is  always  punctual." 

93 


Warden,  though  raging  at  the  dilemma,  made  the 
best  of  it. 

"How  long  has  Mrs.  Laing  been  a  widow  ?"  he  said. 

"Nearly  a  year.  Evidently  your  bush  campaign 
shut  out  the  usual  sources  of  intelligence." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"I  really  must  catch  the  three  o'clock  train  to 
Cowes,"  he  explained.  "I  am  on  Government  service, 
and  I  suppose  it  would  be  quite  impossible  to  arrange 
everything  in  a  couple  of  hours.  I  am  unacquainted 
with  the  formalities,  but  even  a  special  license  de- 
mands   ' 

"How  unkind!  Arthur,  what  has  happened  to 
you?  How  you  are  changed!" 

"Never  changed  where  you  are  concerned,  Lady 
Hilbury!"  he  cried,  sentiment  for  once  gaining  the 
upper  hand  —  "y°u>  to  whom  I  owe  so  much!  That, 
indeed,  would  be  the  wintry  wind  of  ingratitude. 
Now,  let  me  make  amends.  My  behavior  shall  be 
discreet  —  my  decorous  sympathy  worthy  of  a  High 
Church  curate.  I  was  staggered  for  a  few  seconds, 
I  admit,  but  the  effects  of  the  blow  have  passed,  and 
my  best  excuse  is  that  other  things  are  perplexing  me. 
I  have  no  secrets  from  you,  you  know,  so  let  me  tell 
you  why  I  am  here." 

Sure  of  an  interested  listener  in  the  wife  of  an  ex- 
ruler  of  the  great  Niger  territory,  Warden  plunged  into 
an  account  of  recent  events.  It  was  not  necessary  to 
mention  Evelyn  Dane  in  order  to  hold  her  attention. 
The  first  reference  to  Figuero  and  the  Oku  chiefs 

94 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

attained  that  end.  No  mean  diplomatist  herself,  Lady 
Hilbury  understood  much  that  would  perforce  be 
hidden  from  all  save  those  acquainted  with  West 
Africa. 

"You  will  permit  me  to  tell  Charles?"  came  the 
eager  question  when  he  had  finished. 

"Of  course.     Why  not?" 

"There  are  those  in  the  administration  who  are 
jealous  of  his  record,"  she  said.  "Not  every  one  has 
his  tact  in  dealing  with  natives.  It  is  no  secret  that  our 
relations  with  the  emirs  of  the  interior  have  been 
strained  almost  to  breaking  point  of  late  — 

A  motor  stopped  outside  the  house  and  a  bell  rang. 
Lady  Hilbury  bent  forward.  Her  voice  sank  to  a  new 
note  of  intense  conviction. 

"  You  have  been  given  a  great  opportunity,  Arthur. 
It  may  come  sooner  than  you  think.  Grasp  it  firmly. 
Let  no  man  supplant  you,  and  it  will  carry  you  far." 

Her  ladyship's  manner  no  less  than  her  earnest 
words  told  Warden  that  there  were  forces  in  motion  of 
which  he  was  yet  in  complete  ignorance.  It  was 
sufficiently  puzzling  to  find  an  Under  Secretary  so  well 
informed  as  to  the  identity  of  certain  visitors  to  Cowes, 
but  when  a  woman  in  the  position  of  his  hostess  — 
with  her  wide  experience  of  the  seldom-seen  workings 
of  the  political  machine  —  went  out  of  her  way  to  con- 
gratulate him  on  a  "great  opportunity,"  he  was  thrilled 
with  a  sudden  elation. 

Thus,  when  his  hand  closed  on  that  of  Rosamund 
Laing,  there  was  a  flush  on  his  bronzed  face,  a  glint 

95 


The  Message 

of  power  and  confidence  in  *-'s  eyes,  that  might  well  be 
misinterpreted  by  a  woman  startled  almost  to  the  verge 
of  incoherence. 

When  she  asked  where  Lady  Hilbury  was,  and  if  she 
were  alone,  the  footman  merely  announced  the  fact  that 
a  gentleman  had  called  and  would  make  one  of  the 
luncheon  party.  Rosamund  entered  the  boudoir  with 
an  air  of  charming  impulsiveness  practised  so  sedulously 
that  it  had  long  ceased  to  be  artificial.  For  once  in 
her  life  it  abandoned  her.  Warden's  friendly  greeting 
was  such  a  bolt  from  the  blue  that  she  faltered,  paled 
and  blushed  alternately,  and  actually  stammered  a  few 
broken  words  with  the  shy  diffidence  of  a  schoolgirl. 

The  phase  of  embarrassment  passed  as  quickly  as 
it  had  arisen.  Both  the  man  and  the  woman  were  too 
well-bred  to  permit  the  shadows  of  the  past  to  darken 
the  present.  Lady  Hilbury,  too,  rose  to  the  occasion, 
and  they  were  soon  chatting  with  the  unrestrained 
freedom  of  old  and  close  acquaintanceship. 

Then  Warden  discovered  that  the  lively  impetuous 
girl  who  taught  him  the  first  sharp  lesson  in  life's  dis- 
illusionment had  developed  into  a  beautiful,  self- 
possessed,  almost  intellectual  woman  of  the  world. 
She  was  gowned  with  that  unobtrusive  excellence 
which  betokens  perfect  taste  and  a  well-lined  purse. 
Certain  little  hints  in  her  costume  showed  that  the 
memory  of  her  late  husband  did  not  press  too  heavily 
upon  her.  The  fashionable  modiste  can  lend  period- 
icity to  grief,  and  Mrs.  Laing  was  passing  through  the 
heliotrope  stage  of  widowhood. 
'  96 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

Her  exquisite  complexion  was  certainly  somewhat 
bewildering  to  the  untrained  glance  of  the  mere  male. 
Warden's  recollection,  vivid  enough  now,  painted  a 
dark-skinned,  high-colored  girl  of  nineteen,  with  ex- 
pressive features,  a  mop  of  black  hair,  and  a  pair  of 
brilliant  eyes  that  alternated  between  tints  of  deepest 
brown  and  purple. 

The  eyes  remained,  though  their  archness  was  sub- 
dued, but,  for  the  rest,  he  saw  a  neck  and  forehead  of 
marvelous  whiteness,  a  face  of  repose,  cheeks  and  ears 
of  delicate  pink,  and  a  waved  and  plaited  mass  of  hair 
of  the  hue  known  as  Titian  red.  He  found  himself 
comparing  her  with  Evelyn  Dane,  whose  briar-rose 
coloring  shone  through  clusters  of  delightful  little 
freckles,  and,  somehow,  the  contrast  was  displeasing. 

The  conventional  smile  of  small  talk  must  have 
yielded  to  the  strain,  because  Rosamund  Laing  noticed 
his  changed  expression. 

"Dear  me,  what  have  I  said  now?"  she  asked. 
They  were  seated  at  table,  at  the  end  of  a  pleasant 
meal,  and  the  talk  had  wandered  from  recent  doings 
to  a  long-forgotten  point  to  point  steeple-chase  won  by 
Warden  on  a  horse  which  Rosamund  herself  had 
nominated. 

He  recovered  his  wandering  wits  instantly. 

"It  is  not  anything  that  you  have  said,  Mrs.  Laing, 
but  my  own  thoughts  that  are  worrying  me,"  he  said. 
"I  have  been  trying  to  dodge  the  unpleasant  knowledge 
that  I  must  gather  up  my  traps  and  fly  to  Waterloo. 
Lady  Hilbury  knows  that  I  was  en  route  to  the  Solent 

97 


The  Message 

when  I  called  —  and  —  if  I  hesitated  —  which  is  un- 
believable —  she  prevailed  on  me  to  stay  by  the  over- 
whelming argument  that  you  would  appear  forthwith." 

It  was  the  simplest  of  compliments,  but  it  sufficed. 
Rosamund  imperilled  her  fine  complexion  by  blushing 
again  deeply. 

"I  was  indulging  in  the  vain  hope  that  we  might 
see  you  often,  now  that  we  are  all  in  England,"  she 
said. 

"Captain  Warden  has  still  six  months'  furlough  at 
his  disposal,"  put  in  Lady  Hilbury.  "He  is  leaving 
town  on  business  at  the  moment,  but  I  shall  take  care 
he  returns  at  the  earliest  date." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  a  strong  light  when  he 
was  to  say  good-by.  Mrs.  Laing  noticed  the  scar  on 
his  forehead. 

"Have  you  had  an  accident  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  note 
of  caressing  tenderness  in  her  voice. 

"Nothing  to  speak  of.  A  slight  knock  on  the  head 
while  swimming  in  the  Solent  —  that  is  all." 

The  door  had  scarce  closed  on  him  when  Rosamund 
turned  to  her  friend.  She  spoke  slowly,  but  Lady 
Hilbury  saw  that  the  knuckles  of  a  white  hand  holding 
the  back  of  a  chair  reddened  under  the  force  of  the 
grip. 

"I  dared  not  asked  him,"  came  the  steady  words, 
"but  —  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  —  is  he  unmarried ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  free?" 

"My  dear,  I  think  so." 

98 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

The  younger  woman  let  go  the  chair.  Her  hands 
flew  to  her  face  to  hide  the  tears  that  started  forth 
unchecked. 

"Ah,  dear  Heaven,"  she  murmured,  "if  only  I 
could  be  sure!" 

That  evening,  while  the  incense  of  tobacco  rose  from 
the  deck  of  the  Nancy,  Warden  learned  from  Peter  the 
history  of  the  hours  immediately  succeeding  his  de- 
parture from  Cowes. 

It  was  unutterably  annoying  to  hear  that  Figuero 
had  seen  him  in  Evelyn  Dane's  company,  and  he 
deduced  a  Machiavellian  plot  from  the  visit  subse- 
quently paid  by  the  Portuguese  to  the  Sans  Souci. 
The  journey  to  Milford  indirectly  suggested  by  the 
Under  Secretary's  inquiry  anent  the  appearance  of  the 
yacht  now  became  a  fixed  purpose  from  which  nothing 
would  divert  him.  It  seemed  to  be  impossible  that 
Mr.  Baumgartner  could  fail  to  recognize  the  girl's 
description,  since  comparison  with  Rosamund  Laing 
had  shown  him  that  Evelyn  was  by  far  the  most  beauti- 
ful creature  in  England!  He  was  sure  that  her  life 
would  be  made  miserable  by  suspicion,  if,  indeed,  she 
had  not  already  received  a  curt  notification  that  her 
services  were  not  required. 

Peter's  afternoon  with  the  negroes  was  evidently 
Gargantuan  in  its  chief  occupation  —  the  consumption 
of  ardent  spirits. 

"I  never  did  see  any  crowd  'oo  could  shift  liquor  like 
them,"  mused  the  skipper  of  the  Nancy.  "It  was 
'Dash  me  one  bottle,  Peter,'  every  five  minutes  if  I'd 

99 


The  Message 

run  to  it.  I  stood  'em  three,  just  in  your  interests, 
captain,  an'  then  I  turned  a  pocket  inside  out,  sayin* 
'No  more  'oof,  savvy?'  They  savvied  right  enough. 
Out  goes  one  chap  they  called  Wanger  — 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  one  of  those  three  men 
was  named  M'Wanga?"  broke  in  Warden,  and  in  the 
darkness  Peter  could  not  see  the  blank  amazement  on 
his  employer's  face. 

"That's  it,  sir  —  funny  sort  o'  click  they  gev'  in 
front  of  it.  Sink  me,  but  you  do  it  a  treat!  Well,  'is 
nibs  comes  back  with  two  bottles,  an'  we  finished  the 
lot  afore  I  began  to  wonder  if  I  was  quite  sartin  which 
of  my  legs  was  the  wooden  one.  But,  bless  yer  'eart, 
there's  no  'arm  in  them  three  niggers.  I  could  live 
among  'em  twenty  year  an'  never  'ave  a  wrong  word 
wi'  one  of  'em." 

"Could  you  gather  any  inkling  of  their  business 
from  their  talk?" 

Peter  tamped  some  half-burned  tobacco  into  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe  with  the  head  of  a  nail  before  replying. 

"There  was  just  one  thing  that  struck  me  as  a  bit 
pecooliar,  sir,"  he  said,  after  a  meditative  pause.  "A 
joker  'oo  tole  me  'is  name  was  Pana  seems  to  be  sort 
o'  friendly  with  a  serving-maid  in  the  Lord  Nelson. 
She  brought  in  the  bottles  I  ordered,  an'  each  time 
Pana  tried  to  catch  'old  of  'er.  The  third  time  he 
grabbed  her  for  fair,  an'  sez:  'You  lib  for  Benin 
country  w'en  I  king  ? '  At  that  one  of  'is  pals  jabbered 
some  double  Dutch,  an*  they  all  looked  'ard  at  me, 
but  I  was  gazin'  into  the  bottom  of  a  glass  at  the  time 

100 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

an'  they  thought  I  wasn't  listenin'.     It  never  occurred 
to  'em  that  I  don't  swaller  with  me  ears." 

"Were  you  present  when  Figuero  returned?" 

"Yes,  sir,  an'  a  nasty  cur  he  can  be  w'en  he  likes. 
He  called  'em  all  the  different  sorts  o'  drunken  swine 
he  could  think  of,  an'  tole  me  I  was  wuss,  to  go  leadin' 
pore  ignorant  blacks  astray.  My  godfather!  Five 
bottles  of  Ole  Tom  among  three  of  'em,  an'  me,  'oo 
'ates  the  smell  o'  gin,  tryin'  to  doctor  my  poison  wi' 
water!  If  you'll  believe  me,  sir,  at  supper-time  I 
couldn't  bring  myself  to  touch  the  nicest  bit  o'  steak 
that  ever  sizzled  on  the  Nancy's  grid." 

"When  did  the  Sans  Souci  sail?" 

"Just  before  I  sent  you  that  telegram,  sir.  Chris 
saw  the  niggers  an'  the  Portygee  off  by  train,  an'  kem 
straight  back  to  the  dinghy.  We  pulled  away  to  the 
cutter,  an'  sighted  the  yacht  steamin'  west,  so  I  'bout 
ship  an'  landed  Chris  near  the  post-orfis.  The  butcher 
'oo  supplied 'their  meat  tole  me  this  mornin'  that  he 
was  to  send  his  bill  to  Plymouth." 

Warden,  who  was  wont  to  take  pride  in  his  ability 
to  be  absolutely  lazy  when  on  a  holiday,  suddenly 
stood  up. 

"With  this  breeze  we  ought  to  make  Plymouth  by 
to-morrow  morning?"  he  cried. 

"Are  you  in  earnest,  guv'nor?"  demanded  the 
astonished  Peter. 

"Fully.  Bring  the  cutter  past  the  Needles,  and  as 
soon  as  St.  Abb's  Head-light  is  a-beam  you  can  turn 
in." 

101 


The  Message 

Evans  realized  that  his  master  meant  what  he  said. 
Chris,  who  was  in  bed  and  sound  asleep,  awoke  next 
morning  to  find  the  Nancy  abreast  of  Star  Point. 
They  reached  Plymouth  in  a  failing  wind  about  mid- 
day, but  Warden's  impatient  glance  searched  the 
magnificent  harbor  in  vain  for  the  trim  outlines  of  the 
Sans  Souci.  As  the  cutter  drew  near  the  inner  port 
both  he  and  Peter  knew  that  they  had  come  on  a  wild- 
goose  chase,  no  matter  how  assured  the  Cowes  butcher 
might  be  of  his  account  being  paid. 

It  was  a  gloriously  fine  day,  but  Warden's  impatience 
brooked  no  interference  with  his  plans.  It  even  seemed 
to  him  that  the  elements  had  conspired  with  his  per- 
sonal ill  luck  to  bring  him  into  this  land-locked  estuary 
and  bottle  him  up  there  for  a  week.  Strive  as  best  he 
might,  he  could  not  shake  off  the  impression  that  he 
ought  to  be  acting,  and  not  dawdling  about  the  south 
coast  in  this  aimless  fashion.  He  was  quite  certain 
that  a  dead  calm  had  overtaken  him,  and,  with  this 
irritating  because  unfounded  belief,  came  a  curious 
suggestion  of  calamity  in  store  for  the  Nancy  if  he 
tried  to  weather  the  Land's  End  en  route  to  Milford 
Haven. 

"Go  to  Africa!"  whispered  some  mysterious  coun- 
selor in  words  that  were  audible  to  an  unknown  sense. 
"Go  where  you  are  wanted.  Lady  Hilbury  told  you 
that  a  great  opportunity  had  presented  itself.  Seize  it ! 
Delay  will  be  fatal!" 

Peter,  watching  the  young  officer  furtively  as  he 
trimmed  the  cutter  to  her  anchorage,  was  much  per- 

102 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

turbed.  Though  a  true  sailorman,  he  seldom  swore, 
for  his  religious  connections  were  deep  and  sincere, 
but  he  did  use  anathemas  now. 

"I  wish  that  d — d  Turk's  Head  'ad  rotted  in  the 
sea  afore  ever  it  kem  aboard  this  craft,"  he  muttered. 
"There's  bin  nothin'  but  fuss  an'  worry  every  hour 
since  that  bonny  lass  set  her  eyes  on  it.  Onless  I'm 
vastly  mistaken  it'll  bust  up  the  cruise,  an'  here  was 
Chris  an'  me  fixed  up  to  the  nines  for  the  nex'  three 
months.  It's  too  bad,  that  it  is"  —  and  the  rest  of 
his  remarks  became  unfit  for  publication. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  learn  how  far  Peter  would 
have  fallen  from  grace  if  he  were  told  that  the  cala- 
bash was  even  then  reposing  in  a  portmanteau,  by  the 
side  of  Warden's  bunk.  Happily,  he  was  spared  the 
knowledge.  It  would  come  in  good  time,  but  was  with- 
held for  the  present. 

Warden,  restless  as  a  caged  lion,  did  not,  as  was  his 
habit,  bring  a  folding-chair  to  the  shady  side  of  the 
mainsail  and  lose  himself  in  the  pages  of  a  book.  A 
purpose  in  life  of  some  sort  became  almost  an  obsession. 
Fixing  on  the  Sans  Souci's  known  objective  at  the 
extreme  southwestern  corner  of  Wales  on  the  follow- 
ing Wednesday,  he  suddenly  hit  upon  the  idea  of 
walking  across  Dartmoor  and  taking  a  steamer  from 
Ilfracombe  to  Swansea.  Once  committed  to  a  definite 
itinerary  of  that  nature  there  would  be  no  turning 
back.  He  counted  on  being  able  to  accomplish  the 
first  stage  of  the  journey  easily  in  three  days,  which 
would  bring  him  to  Ilfracombe  on  the  Tuesday.  The 

103 


The  Message 

only  question  that  remained  was  the  uncertainty  of  the 
steamship  service,  and  a  telegram  to  the  shipping 
agents  would  determine  that  point  in  an  hour  or 
less. 

So  Peter  brought  him  ashore  in  the  dinghy,  and  the 
message  was  despatched,  and  Warden  went  for  a  stroll 
on  the  Hoe,  of  which  pleasant  promenade  he  had 
hardly  traversed  a  hundred  yards  when  he  saw  Evelyn 
Dane  seated  there,  deeply  absorbed  in  a  magazine. 
A  bound  of  his  heart  carried  conviction  to  his  incredu- 
lous brain.  Though  the  girl's  face  was  bent  and  almost 
hidden  by  her  hat,  she  offered  precisely  the  same  har- 
monious picture  that  had  so  won  his  admiration  when 
she  sat  opposite  to  him  in  the  dinghy  on  that  memo- 
rable afternoon  that  now  seemed  so  remote  in  the  annals 
of  his  life. 

A  few  steps  nearer,  and  he  could  no  longer  refuse  to 
believe  his  eyes.  He  recalled  the  exact  patterns  of  a 
brooch,  a  marquise  ring,  an  ornament  in  her  hat. 
Seating  himself,  with  a  rapid  movement,  quite  close 
to  her,  he  said  softly: 

"  More,  much  more,  the  heart  may  feel 
Than  the  pen  may  write  or  the  lip  reveal." 

Evelyn  turned  with  a  startled  cry.  She  was  con- 
scious that  some  one  had  elected  to  share  her  bench; 
at  the  first  sound  of  Warden's  voice  she  was  ready  to 
spring  up  and  walk  away,  without  looking  at  him. 
Her  bright  face  crimsoned  with  delight  when  she 
grasped  the  wonderful  fact  that  he  was  actually  at  her 
side. 

104 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

She  closed  the  magazine  with  a  bang,  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"This  is  indeed  a  surprise,"  she  cried.  "How  in 
the  world  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?  " 

"I  didn't  know,"  he  said,  clasping  her  fingers 
firmly.  "At  least,  that  cannot  be  true.  My  ordinary 
eat-three-meals-a-day,  keep-away-from-the-fire-and-you 
won't-get-burned  wits  informed  me  that  you  were  in 
far-off  Oxfordshire,  but  some  kindly  monitor  from 
within,  unseen,  unheard,  yet  most  worthy  of  credence, 
led  me  here,  to  your  side  —  may  I  say  —  to  your  very 
feet." 

Laughing  and  blushing,  and  vainly  endeavoring  to 
extricate  her  hand  from  his  grasp  —  because  truly  she 
began  to  fear  that  he  was  drawing  her  towards  him  — 
her  first  uncontrolled  action  was  to  glance  around  and 
discover  if  any  passers-by  were  gazing  at  them.  In- 
stantly she  knew  she  had  made  a  mistake,  and  the 
imprisoned  hand  was  snatched  away  emphatically. 
If  anything,  this  only  added  to  her  confusion,  for  it 
bore  silent  testimony  to  her  knowledge  of  his  lover- 
like  attitude.  But  she  gallantly  essayed  to  retrieve 
lost  ground. 

"I  was  not  an  hour  at  home,"  she  explained  volubly, 
"before  Mrs.  Baumgartner  telegraphed  and  afterward 
wrote  an  entire  change  of  arrangements.  I  am  not 
going  to  Milford  Haven.  Miss  Beryl  Baumgartner 
came  with  some  friends  to  a  little  place  down  the  coast 
there,  a  place  called  Salcombe,  I  think,  and  the  Sans 
Souci  arrived  there  yesterday.  They  all  come  on  to 

105 


THe  Message 

Plymouth  this  evening,  and  they  wish  me  to  be  ready 
to  go  on  board  about  nine  o'clock,  when  we  sail  for 
Oban,  only  stopping  twice  on  the  way  to  coal." 

"Marvelous!"  cried  Warden.  "You  reel  off  amaz- 
ing statements  with  the  self-possession  of  a  young  lady 
reciting  a  Browning  poem.  No,  I  shall  not  explain 
what  I  mean  —  not  yet,  at  any  rate.  The  glorious 
fact  prevails  that  you  are  free  till  nine." 

"Free!"  she  repeated,  not  that  she  was  at  a  loss  to 
understand  him,  but  rather  to  gain  time  to  collect  her 
thoughts. 

"Absurd,  of  course.  I  mean  bound  —  absolutely 
bound  to  me  for  a  superb  vista  of  —  let  me  see  —  lunch 

—  long    drive    in     country  —  tea  —  more    driving  — 
dinner.  —  Ah!  let  us  not  look  beyond  the  dinner." 

"But " 

"But  me  no  buts.  I  shall  butt  myself  violently 
against  any  male  person  who  dares  to  lay  prior  claim 
to  you,  while,  should  the  claimant  be  a  lady,  I  shall 
butter  her  till  she  relents." 

"Still " 

"I  suppose  I  must  listen,"  he  complained.  "Well, 
what  is  the  obstacle  ?  " 

She  hesitated  an  instant.  Then,  abandoning  pre- 
tense —  for  she,  like  Warden  had  lived  through  many 
hours  of  self-scrutiny  since  they  parted  at  Portsmouth 

—  she  laughed  unconcernedly. 

"There  is  none  that  I  know  of,"  she  admitted.  "I 
had  never  seen  Plymouth,  so  I  traveled  here  yesterday 
evening.  My  belongings  are  in  the  big  hotel  there. 

106 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

I  am  a  mere  excursionist,  out  for  the  day.  And  now 
that  I  have  yielded  all  along  the  line,  I  demand  my 
woman's  rights.  My  presence  here  is  readily  ex- 
plained. What  of  yours  ?" 

He  hailed  a  passing  carriage  and  directed  the  man 
to  take  them  to  the  hotel. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  really  clear  matters  up  to  your 
satisfaction  unless  you  permit  me  to  call  you  Evelyn," 
he  said,  daringly  irrelevant. 

Midsummer  madness  is  infectious  —  under  certain 
conditions. 

"That  is  odd,"  she  cried,  yet  there  was  but  feeble 
protest  in  her  voice. 

"To  make  things  even  you  must  call  me  Arthur." 

"How  utterly  absurd!" 

"That  is  not  my  fault.  The  name  was  given  me. 
I  yelled  defiance,  but  I  had  to  have  it,  like  the  measles." 

"You  know  very  well " 

"'Pon  my  honor,  Evelyn,  the  greatest  of  your  many 
charms  is  your  prompt  sympathy.  In  those  few  words 
you  have  reconciled  me  to  my  lot." 

"I  think  Arthur  is  rather  a  nice  name,"  she  sighed 
contentedly.  After  all,  it  was  best  to  humor  him,  and 
he  was  the  first  man  who  had  ever  won  her  confidence. 

"I  ask  for  more  than  pity,"  he  said.  "Nevertheless, 
if  I  would  gain  credence  I  must  propound  a  plain  tale. 
List,  then,  while  I  unfold  marvels." 

He  was  a  good  talker,  and  he  kept  her  amused  and 
interested,  at  times  somewhat  thrilled,  by  the  recital 
of  his  doings  in  London. 

107 


Thev  were  in  a  carriage  speeding  out  into  the  lovely 
country  westward  of  Plymouth  when  he  told  her  the 
strange  history  of  Domenico  Garcia.  She  shivered  a 
little  at  the  gruesome  memory  of  the  "parchment" 
which  she  had  examined  so  intently,  but  she  did  not 
interrupt,  save  for  an  occasional  question,  until  he 
reached  that  part  of  his  narrative  which  ended  in  the 
determination  of  the  previous  night  to  sail  to  Plymouth 
forthwith. 

"It  is  all  very  strange  and  mysterious,"  she  said  at 
last.  "You  were  coming  to  Milford  Haven,  I  gather  ? " 

"Yes." 

"And  were  it  not  for  the  impulse  that  brought  me 
here  you  would  now  be  on  your  way  over  Dart- 
moor ?  " 

"That  was  my  fixed  intention." 

"Was  it  so  very  important  that  you  should  know  all 
about  the  Sans  Souci?" 

"I  would  have  said  so  to  the  Under  Secretary." 

There  was  a  pause.  Warden  deliberately  passed 
the  opening  given  by  her  words.  In  broad  daylight, 
and  whirling  rapidly  through  a  village,  it  behooved 
him  to  be  circumspect.  Between  dinner  and  nine 
o'clock  he  would  contrive  other  opportunities. 

"Lady  Hilbury  must  be  very  nice,"  she  went  on, 
after  a  brief  silence. 

"You  will  like  her  immensely  when  you  know  her," 
he  could  not  help  saying,  at  the  same  time  thanking 
his  stars  that  he  had  made  no  mention  of  Rosamund 
Laing. 

108 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

There  was  a  further  pause.  Evelyn  fancied  that  her 
voice  was  well  under  control  when  she  asked: 

"Have  you  decided  to  carry  out  poor  Domenico 
Garcia's  last  request?" 

"Before  answering,  will  you  tell  me  what  you  would 
do  in  my  place?" 

"I  would  go  to  Rabat,  if  it  were  in  my  power,  and 
there  were  no  undue  risk  in  the  undertaking.  I  don't 
think  I  would  be  happy  if  I  had  not  made  the  effort. 
Yet,  Rabat  is  a  long  way  from  England.  Would  you 
be  absent  many  weeks?  Perhaps  such  a  journey 
would  spoil  your  leave.  And  then  —  things  may 
happen  in  West  Africa.  You  may  be  needed  there." 

"Rabat  is  a  half-way  house  to  Oku,  Evelyn,"  he 
said.  "I  am  going,  of  course,  for  two  reasons.  In 
the  first  instance,  I  want  to  set  Garcia's  soul  at  rest 
about  those  masses  which,  it  seems  to  me,  can  only  be 
done  by  obeying  the  letter  of  his  instructions.  And, 
secondly,  I  mean  to  secure  that  ruby." 

This  time  she  passed  no  comment. 

He  caught  her  arm  aud  bent  closer. 

"If  I  bring  it  to  you  in  Madeira  you  will  not  refuse 
to  accept  it?"  he  said. 

"Now  you  are  talking  nonsense,"  she  replied,  turn- 
ing and  looking  at  him  bravely,  with  steadfast  scrutiny. 

"No.  There  would  be  a  condition,  of  course. 
With  the  ruby  you  must  take  the  giver." 

"Are  you  asking  me  to  marry  you?"  she  almost 
whispered. 

"Yes." 

109 


The  Message 

"After  knowing  me  a  few  idle  hours  of  three  days  ?" 

"I  was  exactly  the  same  mind  the  first  time  I  met 
you.  I  see  no  valid  reason  why  I  should  change  a  well- 
balanced  opinion  during  the  next  thirty  or  forty  years." 

He  felt  her  arm  trembling  in  his  clasp,  and  a  sus- 
picious moisture  glistened  in  her  fine  eyes. 

"I  think,  somehow,  I  know  you  well  enough  to  be- 
lieve that  you  are  in  earnest,"  she  faltered.  "But  let 
us  forget  now  that  you  have  said  those  words.  Come 
to  me  later  —  when  your  work  is  done  —  and  if  you 
care  to  repeat  them  —  I  shall  —  try  to  answer  —  as 
you  would  wish." 

And  then,  for  a  few  hours,  they  lived  in  the  Paradise 
that  can  be  entered  only  by  lovers. 

Not  that  there  were  tender  passages  between  them 
—  squeezings,  and  pressings  and  the  many  phrases  of 
silent  languages  that  mean  "I  love  you."  Neither 
was  formed  of  the  malleable  clay  that  permits  such 
sudden  change  of  habit.  Each  dwelt  rather  in  a 
dream-land  —  the  man  hoping  it  could  be  true  that 
this  all-pleasing  woman  could  find  it  possible  to  sur- 
render herself  to  him  utterly  —  the  woman  becoming 
more  alive  each  moment  to  the  astounding  conscious- 
ness that  she  loved  and  was  beloved. 

Their  happiness  seemed  to  be  so  fantastically  com- 
plete that  they  made  no  plans  for  the  future.  They 
were  wilfully  blind  to  the  shoals  and  cross  currents 
that  must  inevitably  affect  the  smooth  progress  of  that 
life  voyage  they  would  make  together.  Rather,  when 
they  talked,  did  they  seek  to  discover  more  of  the  past, 

110 


Wherein  Warden  Sets  a  New  Course 

of  their  common  tastes,  of  their  friends,  of  the  "  little 
histories"  of  youth.  Thus  did  they  weld  the  first 
slender  links  of  sweet  intimacy  —  those  links  that  are 
stronger  than  fetters  of  steel  in  after  years  —  and  the 
hours  flew  on  golden  wings. 

Once  only  did  Warden  hold  Evelyn  in  his  arms  — 
in  a  farewell  embrace  ere  she  left  him  to  join  the  yacht. 
And,  when  that  ecstatic  moment  had  passed,  and  the 
boat  which  held  his  new-found  mate  was  vanishing  into 
the  gloom,  he  awoke  to  the  knowledge  that  he  had  much 
to  accomplish  before  he  might  ask  her  to  be  his  bride. 

But  he  thrust  aside  gray  thought  for  that  night  of 
bliss.  He  almost  sang  aloud  as  he  walked  to  the  quay 
where  Peter  was  waiting,  after  receiving  a  brief  mes- 
sage earlier  in  the  day.  He  was  greeted  cheerily. 

"I'm  main  glad  to  see  you  again,  sir,"  said  the  skip- 
per of  the  Nancy.  "Somehows,  I  had  a  notion  this 
mornin'  that  we  was  goin'  to  lose  you  for  good  an'  all." 

Then  Warden  remembered  the  inquiry  he  had  sent 
to  Ilfracombe,  and  the  reply  that  was  surely  waiting 
for  him  at  the  post-office,  and  he  laughed  with  a  quiet 
joyousness  that  was  good  to  hear. 

"  Peter,"  he  said,  "  you're  a  first-class  pilot,  but 
neither  you  nor  any  other  man  can  look  far  into  the 
future,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  came  the  prompt  answer,  "  that's  a  sea 
without  charts  or  soundin's  an'  full  of  everlastin'  fog. 
But  sometimes  one  can  do  a  bit  o'  guessin',  an'  that's 
wot  I've  bin  doin'  since  Chris  tole  me  he  saw  you  an' 
the  young  leddy  a-drivin'  in  a  keb!" 

Ill 


CHAPTER  VII 


MR.  ISIDORE  DAVID  BAUMGARTNER  was  in  a  state  of 
high  good  humor.  After  wasting  many  hundreds  of 
cartridges  he  had  actually  shot  a  driven  grouse.  Tine, 
the  method  of  slaughter  amounted  almost  to  a  crime. 
Traveling  fast  and  low  before  the  wind,  the  doomed 
bird  flew  straight  toward  the  butts.  Baumgartner 
closed  his  eyes,  fired  both  barrels  —  the  first  inten- 
tionally, the  second  from  sheer  nervousness  —  and  a 
cloud  of  feathers,  out  of  which  fell  all  that  was  left  of 
legs,  wings,  and  body,  showed  how  a  gallant  moor- 
cock had  met  his  fate. 

"There's  a  clean  hit  for  you,  Sandy,"  cried  the  little 
man  delightedly.  "It's  all  knack.  I  knew  I  could  do 
it,  once  I  got  the  hang  of  it." 

"Man,  but  ye  stoppit  him,"  replied  Sandy,  who 
doled  out  encouragement  with  a  sour  grin.  The 
shattered  carcass  lay  in  full  view  on  a  tuft  of  heather. 
Two  ounces  of  shot  had  riddled  it  at  a  distance  of  ten 
feet. 

"I  suppose  the  second  barrel  was  hardly  necessary," 
said  Baumgartner,  more  critically. 

"It's  best  to  mak'  sure,"  said  the  sardonic  gillie, 
112 


Two  Women 

"but  now  ye've  got  yer  'ee  in,  as  the  sayin'  is,  mebbe 
ye'll  be  droppin'  ithers,  Mr.  Baumgartner." 

He  held  forth  the  spare  gun  as  a  hint.  Grouse  were 
plentiful  at  Lochmerig,  and  three  other  men  in  the  line 
of  shelters  were  busy.  Baumgartner  forthwith  ex- 
celled himself.  Just  as  a  novice  at  Monte  Carlo  may 
achieve  several  winning  coups  in  succession,  so  did 
fortune  favor  one  whom  nature  had  not  designed  as  a 
sportsman.  He  shot  with  blind  confidence,  and  brought 
down  half  a  dozen  birds  while  they  came  sailing  over 
the  crest  of  the  hill  before  a  strong  breeze  that  brought 
them  to  close  range.  That  he  rendered  them  for  the 
most  part  uneatable  did  not  trouble  him  in  the  least. 
Sport  was  merely  slaying  to  him;  his  only  trophies 
previously  were  some  tame  pigeons  secured  for  practice. 

So  Baumgartner  was  well  content.  As  he  trudged 
down  the  brae  to  Lochmerig  Lodge,  discoursing 
learnedly  to  his  companions  anent  the  "stopping" 
qualities  of  his  eighty-guinea  pair  of  guns,  his  eyes 
roved  over  the  beauties  of  loch  and  glen,  and  the  day- 
dream that  it  would  be  well  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
his  days  in  this  quiet  haven  cast  its  spell  on  his  soul. 
Rich  as  he  was,  he  owned  no  home  except  a  garish 
mansion  in  New  York.  His  career  had  been  meteoric, 
full  of  lurid  energy.  Beginning  with  the  lust  of  money, 
he  had  followed  the  beaten  track  of  his  order,  and 
became  obsessed  with  the  lust  of  power.  Yet  his 
ambition  needed  spurring.  Already  the  tremendous 
issues  involved  in  the  project  which  procured  him  the 
condescending  patronage  of  an  emperor  were  revealing 

113 


The  Message 

their  dangers.  Here,  in  Scotland,  surrounded  by  sub- 
servient friends  and  well-trained  servants,  he  longed 
for  rest.  Lairdship  was  proving  a  subtle  rival  to  West 
African  adventure. 

Moreover,  he  was  married,  and  Mrs.  Baumgartner 
was  endowed  with  a  will  of  her  own  and  a  tongue  to 
bear  witness  thereto.  She  was  learning  to  appreciate 
the  easy  tolerance  of  English  society,  which  proved 
itself  far  more  accessible  than  the  Four  Hundred  of 
New  York.  Men  and  women  of  recognized  social 
rank  and  pleasant  manners  were  quite  willing  to  shoot 
over  the  Lochmerig  moors,  play  bridge  in  the  Lodge, 
cruise  on  the  Sans  Souci,  and  generally  live  and  amuse 
themselves  at  the  millionaire's  expense.  Mrs.  Baum- 
gartner was  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  the  gain  of  a 
big  slice  of  British  territory  in  West  Africa  would  offer 
poor  compensation  for  the  loss  of  the  new  career  which 
was  opening  up  an  alluring  vista  to  her  dazzled  gaze. 
For  once,  therefore,  discord  threatened  in  the  house- 
hold. In  her  daughter,  too,  she  found  a  powerful  ally. 
A  month  of  close  companionship  with  Evelyn  Dane 
had  completely  changed  the  life-theories  of  a  spoiled 
and  affected  girl  of  eighteen.  Too  young  as  yet  to  be 
jealous  of  Evelyn's  greater  attractions,  Beryl  Baum- 
gartner was  alert  enough  to  see  that  vulgar  pertness 
was  ludicrously  inadequate  as  a  means  of  winning 
male  regard.  Luckily,  she  became  enthusiastically 
attached  to  Evelyn  from  the  first  hour.  The  wonderful 
faculty  of  hero-worship  had  survived  the  precocity  of 
a  too-indulgent  rearing.  It  was  stronger  now  than 

114 


Two  Women 

mere  counsel.     Beryl  began  to  copy  her  new  friend, 
and  at  once  she  began  to  improve. 

It  was,  therefore,  a  very  dark  cloud  that  lowered 
over  the  Baumgartner  sky  when  a  family  coach  which 
brought  visitors  from  the  ten  miles  distant  railway 
deposited  at  the  hospitable  door  of  Lochmerig  Lodge, 
at  one  and  the  same  moment,  Mrs.  Laing,  Miguel 
Figuero,  and  Count  von  Rippenbach.  As  it  hap- 
pened, the  three  already  knew  each  other  slightly. 
They  had  met  in  Madeira  during  the  previous  winter. 
Figuero  then  acted  as  bear-leader  to  the  count  before 
he  started  on  the  hunting  trip  in  the  Tuburi  hinterland 
which  had  come  to  the  Under  Secretary's  knowledge. 

It  was  a  surprise  to  both  men  when  they  encountered 
Mrs.  Laing  at  Perth  Junction.  They  passed  several 
interesting  hours  in  her  company,  and  von  Rippen- 
bach, who  spoke  English  better  than  Figuero,  was  a 
skilled  cross-examiner.  Thus,  he  soon  hit  upon  a 
plausible  explanation  of  the  lady's  appearance  in 
Inverness-shire.  She  was  one  of  Mrs.  Baumgartner's 
social  links  with  England.  On  his  part,  as  a  "dis- 
tinguished foreigner,"  he  would  be  acceptable  in  a 
higher  circle  than  that  occupied  by  his  host,  but,  when 
it  came  to  Figuero,  Mrs.  Laing  was  puzzled  — indeed, 
somewhat  amused. 

The  man's  record  was  no  secret.  Tolerant  Madeira 
did  not  ask  how  he  had  risen  to  seeming  affluence. 
It  helped  him  to  spend  his  money,  and  was  graciously 
blind  to  the  darker  pages  of  his  history  —  nevertheless, 
those  pages  were  an  open  book  to  local  gossips. 

115 


The  Message 

Figuero,  a  shrewd  and  level-headed  scoundrel,  was 
the  most  taken  aback  of  the  trio  at  this  unlooked-for 
meeting.  He  was  aware  of  the  love  passages  between 
Warden  and  Rosamund  Laing;  he  feared  Warden; 
and  here  was  the  woman  whom  Warden  had  once 
loved  crossing  his  path  at  an  awkward  hour. 

The  situation  might  have  provided  harmless  interest 
for  a  number  of  unimportant  people  at  Lochmerig  if 
Figuero  had  not  recognized  Evelyn  Dane  the  instant 
he  set  eyes  on  her.  Straightway  the  tiny  rills  of  in- 
trigue and  suspicion  flowing  through  the  adventurer's 
brain  united  into  a  torrent. 

Seizing  the  first  opportunity  that  presented  itself,  he 
drew  Baumgartner  into  an  unoccupied  room,  and 
closed  and  locked  the  door.  Before  the  surprised 
millionaire  could  utter  a  word  of  protest,  the  West 
African  fire-brand  began  to  question  him  in  his  own 
tongue,  since  Baumgartner,  despite  his  Teutonic  label 
and  semblance,  had  a  Portuguese  mother. 

"Why  did  you  fail  to  recognize  the  girl  I  described 
to  you  in  Cowes?"  he  demanded  fiercely.  "Male- 
diction! Are  you  mad,  that  you  would  risk  our  enter- 
prise in  this  fashion?" 

"You  must  neither  address  me  in  that  manner  nor 
talk  in  riddles,"  growled  Baumgartner.  "WThat  girl? 
How  am  I  to  know  one  among  the  ten  thousand  girls 
of  a  regatta  week?" 

"Riddles!  It  is  you  who  are  the  conundrum, 
senhor.  I  tell  you  that  this  Englishman,  Captain 
Warden,  a  Deputy  Commissioner  in  Nigeria,  is  the 

116 


Two  Women 

man  we  have  most  to  fear,  yet  you  permit  one  who  is 
probably  his  fiancee,  and  surely  in  league  with  him,  to 
live  in  your  house  and  spy  on  the  actions  of  yourself  and 
your  friends.  What  will  Count  von  Rippenbach  think 
when  I  tell  him  ?  What  will  the  Emperor  say,  after 

all  the  precautions  we  took  that  none  should  know 

"Silence!"  roared  Baumgartner,  who  could  hold  his 
own  in  matters  that  demanded  clear  thinking  and 
careful  guidance.  "You  are  too  ready  with  some 
names,  Senhor  Figuero,  yet  too  sparing  of  others  that 
may  explain  your  folly.  Of  whom  are  you  speaking?" 
"Of  the  young  Englishwoman  I  have  just  met,  of 
course.  I  am  not  good  at  catching  these  strange 
words,  but  I  mean  the  good-looking  one,  the  tall  slim 
girl  in  white  muslin,  she  with  brown  hair  and  Madonna 

eyes " 

"Do  you  mean  Miss  Dane?" 
"Yes  —  that  is  she.     I  remember  now." 
"My  daughter's  companion!     Nonsense!" 
"It  is  true,  I  tell  you.     Am  I  likely  to  forget  a  face 
—  and  such  a  face !     Did  I  not  describe  her  dress  ? 
She  must  have  left  your  yacht  just  before  Warden  met 
her.     And  they  are  lovers.     How  can  I  be  mistaken? 
They  went  away  from  Cowes  in  the  same  train.     I  told 
you  her  destination.     What  was  it  ?     I  have  it  written 
here,"  and  he  hurriedly  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a 
note-book. 

Baumgartner  was  undoubtedly  impressed.  Fig- 
uero's  earnestness  was  not  to  be  gainsaid,  and  he  had 
an  unpleasant  belief,  now  he  came  to  recall  the  inci- 

117 


The  Message 

dents  of  a  busy  day,  that  Evelyn  Dane  was  dressed 
exactly  as  Warden's  unknown  acquaintance  was  pic- 
tured. 

Meanwhile,  the  Portuguese  found  the  memorandum 
he  sought. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  snapped,  all  a-quiver  with  the  doubts 
that  threatened  the  destruction  of  his  pet  scheme  of 
vengeance  on  the  British  power  which  had  stopped  the 
supply  of  slaves  to  the  Sultan  of  Bogota.  "Langton 
in  Oxfordshire  —  that  is  the  place.  The  railway 
official  spelt  it  for  me.  A  boatman  told  me  he  knew 
the  girl,  and  gave  me  some  outlandish  name  as  being 
hers.  Now  I  see  he  was  fooling  me.  What  was  his 
motive  ?  Was  he  also  an  emissary  of  Warden's  ?  Let 
me  assure  you,  senhor,  this  thing  begins  to  look 
ugly." 

Baumgartner's  heavy  jowl  lost  some  of  the  ruddy 
hue  of  the  moors.  Count  von  Rippenbach  had  been 
ready  enough  to  apply  the  screw  when  his  quondam 
confederate  showed  a  degree  of  hesitancy  in  falling  in 
with  the  proposal  he  came  from  London  to  make,  and 
this  latest  complication  would  strengthen  von  Rippen- 
bach's  hands  beyond  resistance.  Already  the  lairdship 
of  Lochmerig  was  becoming  visionary,  and  the  far-off 
hills  of  interior  Africa  grew  more  substantial  in  their 
dim  outlines. 

But  the  millionaire,  though  he  might  toady  to  a 
Scottish  gillie  for  a  crumb  of  recognition  as  a  marks- 
man, had  not  attained  his  present  position  by  dis- 
playing weakness  in  face  of  a  crisis. 

118 


Two  Women 

"I  believe  you  are  the  victim  of  a  delusion,"  he  said, 
with  some  show  of  dignity,  "but,  even  if  you  are  right, 
we  gain  nothing  by  yielding  to  panic.  What  if  Miss 
Dane  is,  as  you  say,  Warden's  belle  amie?  Why  should 
that  be  harmful?  Does  it  not  explain  his  visit  to 
Cowes?  Indeed,  once  we  are  convinced  that  they 
know  each  other,  we  can  turn  the  circumstance  to  our 
own  purpose.  I  am  far  from  crediting  an  insignificant 
official  of  the  Niger  Company  with  the  importance  you 
seem  to  attach  to  him,  but,  granted  he  is  a  hostile 
influence  to  be  feared,  why  not  stalk  him  through  an 
unsuspecting  agent?" 

"You  don't  rate  him  high  enough,"  muttered  Fig- 
uero.  "He  can  sway  those  stupid  niggers  like  no 
other  man  in  Nigeria.  He  talks  Arabic,  and  Hausa, 
and  krooboy  palaver  as  well  as  I  do.  He  broke  the 
Oku  ju-ju  when  it  was  worth  a  thousand  lives  to  touch 
a  stick  or  a  feather.  If  Warden  gets  wind  of  our 
project  before  we  are  ready,  we  will  fail,  and  you 
realize  what  that  means  to  all  of  us." 

A  dinner  gong  came  to  Baumgartner's  aid.  He 
wished  to  avoid  any  discussion  on  the  last  point  raised 
by  the  Portuguese.  It  bristled  with  thorns.  Von 
Rippenbach  revealed  some  of  its  cactus-like  properties 
earlier  in  the  evening. 

"You  and  I  and  the  Count  will  go  into  other  matters 
fully  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "As  for  Miss  Dane,  I 
shall  clear  up  that  difficulty  without  delay.  Act  as 
though  you  had  never  seen  her  before,  and  keep  your 
ears  open  during  dinner." 

119 


The  Message 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Evelyn,  who  was  mightily 
astonished  and  perplexed  by  the  arrival  of  the  two 
men  concerning  whom  Warden  had  told  her  so  much, 
was  still  more  bewildered  when  Mr.  Baumgartner 
availed  himself  of  a  lull  in  the  conversation  at  the 
dinner-table  to  say  casually: 

"By  the  way,  Miss  Dane,  is  Langton,  in  Oxford- 
shire, near  your  people's  place?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  wondering  what  the  question 
signified. 

"I  suppose,  then,  you  passed  through  it  on  your 
way  home  after  quitting  the  Sans  Souci  at  Cowes?" 

"Oh,  yes.     Langton  is  our  station." 

"Ah!  What  a  small  world  it  is!  A  friend  of  mine, 
Mr.  James  G.  Hertz,  of  Boston,  is  staying  there  now. 
I  suppose  you  did  not  chance  to  meet  him  ? " 

"No.  Our  village  is  three  miles  away,  and  that  is  a 
long  distance  in  the  country." 

And,  in  truth,  Mr.  James  G.  Hertz,  of  Boston,  who 
was  buried  in  Boston,  could  tell  of  yet  more  impassable 
gulfs. 

Rosamund  Laing  was  sitting  next  to  Figuero.  She 
noticed  the  eager  attention  with  which  he  followed 
this  trivial  bit  of  talk,  though  his  limited  knowledge 
of  English  rendered  most  of  the  lively  chatter  at  the 
table  unintelligible. 

"Were  you  in  Cowes  during  the  regatta  week, 
Senhor  Figuero?"  she  asked. 

It  was  a  reasonable  deduction  from  his  presence  at 
Lochmerig,  but  she  little  guessed  the  devilish  purpose 

120 


Two  Women 

engendered  in  that  alert  brain  by  her  aimless  inquiry. 
The  Portuguese  felt  that  he  was  at  a  disadvantage 
among  the  gay  throng  gathered  under  Baumgartner's 
roof.  His  nimble  wits  were  dulled  by  the  barrier  of 
language.  It  put  him  outside  the  pale.  Things  might 
be  occurring  which  he  ought  to  know,  but  which  were 
hidden  from  him  owing  to  this  drawback.  In  the 
beautiful  woman  by  his  side  he  might  find  an  excellent 
go-between  if  only  he  could  command  her  interest. 
Was  that  old  flame  quite  quenched  in  her  heart,  he 
mused?  She  had  married  a  rich  man,  but  had  she 
forgotten  —  did  any  woman  ever  forget  —  her  first 
love?  He  thought  not.  At  any  rate,  here  was  an 
opening  provided  by  the  gods. 

"I  lib  for  Cowes  one-time,  senora,"  he  murmured, 
"an*  I  see  somet'ing  dere  dat  I  tell  you  if  you  not 
vexed." 

"Why  should  I  be  vexed?"  she  said,  smiling  at  the 
odd  expressions,  though  she  was  quite  conversant  with 
the  lingua  franca  of  the  coast. 

"You  'member  dem  Captain  Warden?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"An'  you  keep  secret  dem  t'ing  I  tell  you?" 

"Where  Captain  Warden's  affairs  are  concerned,  I 
shall  certainly  not  discuss  him  or  them." 

Figuero  paid  no  heed  to  the  intentional  snub. 

"You  understan'  better  w'en  I  tole  you  dem  secret. 
You  promise  not  speak  'im  any  one?" 

"Well  — yes." 

"He  fit  for  marry  dem  Mees  Dane." 
121 


The  Message 

"Don't  be  idiotic." 

Mrs.  Laing  could  not  help  it.  She  was  so  startled 
that  she  raised  her  voice,  and  more  than  one  of  her 
neighbors  wondered  what  the  sallow-faced  stranger 
had  said  that  evoked  the  outburst.  Figuero  looked 
annoyed.  He  was  not  prepared  for  such  vehement 
repudiation  of  his  news.  Fortunately,  the  Honorable 
Billy  Thring  was  giving  a  realistic  account  of  his 
failure  to  secure  an  heiress  during  a  recent  wife-hunting 
tour  in  America  —  he  tried  lots  of  'em,  he  explained, 
but  they  all  said  he  must  kill  off  at  least  one  brother 
and  two  healthy  nephews  before  they  would  risk 
marryin'  a  prize  dude  like  him  —  so  Rosamund's 
emphatic  cry  passed  almost  unheeded  amidst  the 
laughter  evoked  by  Thring's  exploits. 

"You  fit  for  chop,"  muttered  the  Portuguese  sar- 
castically. "You  fit  for  fool  palaver.  You  plenty- 
much  silly  woman." 

"But  what  you  say  cannot  be  true,"  she  half  whis- 
pered, and  the  man's  astute  senses  warned  him  that  it 
was  dread,  not  contempt,  that  drew  the  protest  from 
her  lips. 

"I  fit  for  tell  you  Warden  make  wife  palaver  wid 
dem  girl  at  Cowes.  If  you  no  b'lieve  me,  make  sof 
mouf  an'  ax  Mees  Dane." 

Then  the  woman  remembered  Warden's  anxiety  to 
return  to  the  Isle  of  Wight.  He  had  not  written  to 
her  or  to  Lady  Hilbury  during  the  past  month,  and 
this  fact,  trivial  as  a  pin-prick  before,  now  became  a 
rankling  wound. 

122 


Two  Women 

"You  keep  dem  secret?"  went  on  Figuero,  watching 
her  closely. 

"Why  did  you  tell  me?"  she  retorted. 

"Coss  I  no  want  Warden  marry  dem  girl.     Savvy?" 

"Do  you  want  to  marry  her  yourself?"  she  asked, 
with  a  bitterness  that  showed  how  deeply  she  was  hurt. 

He  grinned,  and  wetted  his  thin  lips  with  his  tongue. 

"You  t'ink  I  tired  goin'  by  lone?"  he  said. 

"What  is  your  motive  ?  Why  do  you  choose  me  as  a 
confidant?" 

Figuero  suddenly  became  dense. 

"I  tell  you  leetle  bit  news,"  he  said.  "Dat  is  Eng- 
lish custom.  W'en  we  chop  one-time  palaver  set. 
But  you  no  say  Figuero  tole  you  dem  t'ing." 

Rosamund  did  not  reply.  She  endeavored  to  eat, 
and  entered  into  conversation  with  a  man  near  her. 
The  Honorable  Billy  was  ending  his  story. 

"So  I  am  still  eligible,"  he  was  saying.  "I  went  to 
America  full  of  hot  air,  and  came  back  with  cold  feet. 
But  I  learned  the  language  —  eh,  what?" 

That  night,  in  the  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Laing  carried 
out  the  opening  move  in  a  campaign  she  had  mapped 
out  for  herself.  If  Figuero's  story  were  true,  she 
would  smite  and  spare  not.  If  it  were  untrue,  Evelyn 
would  be  the  first  to  deny  it,  and  Rosamund  trusted 
to  her  own  intuition  to  discover  how  far  such  denial 
might  be  credited. 

A  man  who  was  talking  to  Evelyn  was  summoned  to 
a  bridge  table,  and  Rosamund  took  his  place  unob- 
trusively. 

123 


The  Message 

"Then  you  really  were  on  board  the  Sans  Souci  at 
Cowes,  Miss  Dane  ? "  she  began,  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"Yes,"  said  Evelyn,  at  a  loss  to  determine  why  her 
brief  sojourn  in  the  Solent  should  attract  such  wide- 
spread attention. 

"And  you  met  Captain  Warden  there?" 

The  attack  was  so  direct  and  unexpected  that  the 
younger  woman  blushed  and  flinched  from  it.  Still, 
she  was  not  to  be  drawn  into  admissions  like  a  fright- 
ened child. 

"I  met  several  people  on  the  island,"  she  said. 
"Cowes  is  a  crowded  place  during  regatta  week." 

"Oh,  come  now,"  purred  the  smiling  Rosamund, 
"one  does  not  forget  a  man  of  Arthur  Warden's  type 
so  readily  —  and  after  a  violent  flirtation,  too !  You 
see,  I  know  all  about  it.  Little  birds  whisper  these 
things.  Arthur  did  not  tell  me  when  he  came  to  see 
me  in  town.  Of  course,  he  wouldn't,  but  there  are 
always  kind-hearted  people  willing  enough  to  gossip 
if  they  think  they  are  annoying  one." 

There  was  sufficient  innuendo  in  this  brief  speech 
to  justify  Mrs.  Laing's  worst  estimate  of  scandal- 
mongers. Not  one  barbed  shaft  missed  its  mark.  If 
words  could  wound,  then  Evelyn  must  have  succumbed, 
but  the  injuries  they  inflict  are  not  always  visible,  and 
she  kept  a  stiff  upper  lip,  though  her  heart  raced  in 
wild  tumult. 

"The  inference  is  that  you  are  far  more  interested  in 
Captain  Warden's  visits  to  Cowes  than  I  or  any  other 
person  can  pretend  to  be,"  she  said  slowly. 

124 


Two  Women 

She  meant  the  cold-drawn  phrase  to  hurt,  and  in 
that  she  succeeded,  though  her  own  voice  sounded  in 
her  ears  as  if  it  had  come  from  afar. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  ought  to  be  told  that  he  and  I 
are  engaged,"  said  Rosamund,  stung  to  a  sudden  fury 
of  lying.  "Don't  imagine  I  bear  malice.  You  are 
sweetly  pretty,  and  Arthur  is  so  susceptible!  But  he 
is  also  rather  thoughtless.  We  were  pledged  to  each 
other  years  ago,  but  were  kept  apart  by  —  by  a  mother's 
folly.  Now  I  am  free,  and  he  came  back  to  me,  though 
I  had  to  insist  that  at  least  a  year  should  elapse  between 
my  husband's  death  and  the  announcement  of  our 
engagement.  All  our  friends  know  our  sad  story,  and 
would  forgive  some  measure  of  haste,  but  one  has  to 
consider  the  larger  circle  of  the  public." 

Then,  indeed,  Evelyn's  blood  seemed  to  chill  in  her 
veins.  The  room  and  its  occupants  swam  before  her 
eyes,  and  the  pain  of  repression  became  almost  un- 
bearable, yet  she  was  resolved  to  carry  off  the  honors 
in  this  duel  unless  she  fainted. 

"I  gather  that  you  are  warning  me  against  Captain 
Warden's  thoughtlessness,  as  you  term  it?"  she  said, 
compelling  each  word  at  the  bayonet's  point,  as  it  were. 

"Oh,  I  was  not  speaking  seriously,  but  we  can  let 
it  go  at  that." 

"And  you  wish  me  to  understand  that  you  are  his 
promised  wife?" 

"There,  at  least,  I  am  most  emphatic,"  and  Rosa- 
mund laughed,  a  trifle  shrilly,  perhaps,  for  a  woman 
so  well  equipped  with  the  armor  of  self-conceit. 

125 


The  Message 

"I  suppose,  then,  that  the  late  Mr.  Laing  has  been 
dead  a  year,  as  I  form  one  of  that  larger  circle  whose 
favorable  opinion  you  court?" 

For  an  instant  Rosamund's  black  eyes  flashed  angrily. 
She  had  expected  tears  and  faltering,  not  resistance. 

"I  only  meant  to  do  you  a  good  turn,  yet  I  seem 
to  have  touched  you  on  the  raw,"  she  sneered. 

"Pray  do  not  consider  me  at  all.  By  your  own 
showing,  I  have  no  grievance  —  no  lociis  statidi,  as  the 
lawyers  say  —  but,  since  you  have  gone  out  of  your 
way  to  give  a  mere  stranger  this  interesting  informa- 
tion, I  wish  to  be  quite  sure  of  the  facts.  For  instance, 
let  us  suppose  that  I  have  the  honor  of  Captain 
Warden's  acquaintance  —  am  I  at  liberty  to  write 
and  congratulate  him?" 

"That  would  place  me  in  a  false  position." 

"Ah.  Is  there  nothing  to  be  said  for  me?  You 
spoke  of  a  'violent  flirtation,'  I  think.  If  I  may  guess 
at  the  meaning  of  a  somewhat  crude  phrase,  it  seems 
to  imply  a  possible  exchange  of  lovers'  vows,  and  one 
of  the  parties  might  be  misled  —  and  suffer." 

"We  women  are  the  sinners  most  frequently." 

"I  do  not  dispute  your  authority,  Mrs.  Laing.  I 
only  wish  to  ascertain  exactly  what  I  am  free  to  say  to 
Captain  Warden?" 

"Tell  him  you  met  me,  and  that  I  am  well  posted 
in  everything  that  occurred  at  Cowes.  And,  for  good- 
ness' sake,  let  me  see  his  reply.  It  will  be  too  killing 
to  read  Arthur's  verbal  wrigglings,  because  he  is  really 
clever,  don't  you  think?" 

126 


Two  Women 

Somehow,  despite  the  steely  tension  of  every  nerve, 
Evelyn  caught  an  undertone  of  anxiety  in  the  jesting 
words.  Her  rival  was  playing  a  bold  game.  It  might 
end  in  complete  disaster,  but,  once  committed  to  it, 
there  was  no  drawing  back. 

"The  proceedings  at  Cowes  were  open  to  all  the 
world,"  Evelyn  could  not  help  saying.  "Even  you, 
with  your  long  experience,  might  fail  to  detect  in  them 
any  trace  of  the  thoughtlessness  you  deplore." 

"Then  you  have  met  him  elsewhere?" 

Evelyn,  conscious  of  a  tactical  blunder,  colored  even 
more  deeply  with  annoyance,  though  again  she  felt 
that  her  tormentor  was  not  so  sure  of  her  ground  as 
she  professed  to  be.  Every  woman  is  a  born  actress, 
and  Evelyn  precipitated  a  helpful  crisis  with  histrionic 
skill. 

"The  whole  story  is  yours,  not  mine,  Mrs.  Laing," 
she  said  quietly.  "Perhaps,  if  you  apply  to  your 
half-caste  informant,  he  may  fill  in  further  details  to 
please  you." 

At  that  moment  the  Honorable  Billy  Thring  inter- 
vened. He  was  one  of  those  privileged  persons  who 
can  say  anything  to  anybody  without  giving  offense, 
and  he  broke  into  the  conversation  now  with  his  usual 
frank  inanity. 

"I  find  I've  bin  lookin'  for  a  faithful  spouse  in  the 
wrong  direction,  Mrs.  Laing,"  he  chortled.  "Barkin' 
up  the  wrong  tree,  a  Chicago  girl  called  it.  What  a 
thorough  ass  I  was  to  spin  that  yarn  at  dinner  with 
you  in  the  room.  Will  you  be  good,  an'  forget  it? 

127 


The  Message 

Don't  say  I  haven't  got  an  earthly  before  the  flag 
falls." 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about?"  cried 
Rosamund,  turning  on  him  with  the  sourest  of  society 
smiles. 

"It  sounds  like  the  beginning  of  a  violent  flirtation," 
said  Evelyn,  yielding  to  the  impulse  that  demanded 
some  redress  for  the  torture  she  had  endured. 

"Right  you  are,  Miss  Dane,"  said  Billy.  "By  gad, 
that  clears  the  course  quicker  than  a  line  of  policemen. 
You  see,  Mrs.  Laing,  I  really  must  marry  somebody 
with  sufficient  means  for  both  of  us.  I  have  expensive 
tastes,  and  my  noble  dad  gave  me  neither  a  profession 
nor  an  income.  So  what  is  a  fellow  to  do?" 

"You  flatter  me,"  said  Rosamund  tartly.  "Unfor- 
tunately I  have  just  been  telling  Miss  Dane  that  I  am 
hors  de  concours,  as  they  put  it  in  the  Paris  exhibitions." 

"That  is  the  French  for  'you  never  know  your  luck,' 
Mr.  Thring,"  cried  Evelyn,  with  a  well-assumed  laugh. 
"Mrs.  Laing  may  change  her  mind,  too,  not  for  the 
first  time." 

Without  giving  her  adversary  a  chance  to  retaliate, 
she  darted  away  to  join  Beryl  Baumgartner,  and 
soon  seized  an  opportunity  to  retreat  to  her  own  room. 
Once  safely  barricaded  behind  a  locked  door,  she 
bowed  before  the  storm.  Flinging  herself  on  her  knees 
by  the  bedside,  she  wept  as  though  her  heart  would 
break.  It  was  her  first  taste  of  the  bitter  cup  that  is 
held  out  to  many  a  girl  in  her  position,  and  its  gall  was 
not  diminished  because  she  still  believed  that  Arthur 

128 


Two  Women 

Warden  loved  her.  How  could  she  doubt  him,  when 
each  passing  week  brought  her  a  letter  couched  in  the 
most  endearing  terms?  Only  that  morning  had  she 
heard  from  him  at  Ostend,  whither  the  Nancy  had 
flown  after  making  a  round  of  the  Norfolk  Broads. 
He  described  his  chances  of  speedy  promotion  once 
the  threatened  disturbance  in  West  Africa  had  spent 
itself,  and,  oddly  enough,  reminded  her  of  his  intention 
to  curtail  his  furlough  so  as  to  permit  of  a  visit  to  Rabat 
in  a  coasting  steamer  before  going  to  Madeira  on  his 
way  to  the  Protectorate. 

Not  a  word  did  he  say  of  the  Baumgartners,  or  their 
queer  acquaintances  of  the  Isle  of  Wight.  It  was 
tacitly  agreed  between  them  that  Evelyn  should  not 
play  the  role  of  spy  on  her  employers,  and,  indeed, 
until  that  very  day  there  was  little  to  report  save  the 
utmost  kindness  at  their  hands. 

Why,  then,  it  may  be  urged,  did  she  weep  so  unre- 
strainedly ?  and  only  the  virgin  heart  of  a  woman  who 
loves  can  answer.  She  feared  that  Rosamund  Laing 
was  telling  the  truth  when  she  spoke  of  a  prior  engage- 
ment. She  knew  that  Warden  had  said  nothing  at 
Plymouth  of  meeting  Rosamund  in  London,  and  she 
was  hardly  to  be  blamed  for  drawing  the  most  sinister 
inference  from  his  silence.  Did  he  dread  that  earlier 
entanglement  ?  He  was  poor,  and  she  was  poor;  how 
could  he  resist  the  pleading  of  one  so  rich  and  beautiful 
as  her  rival  ? 

In  short,  poor  Evelyn  passed  a  grievous  and  need- 
lessly tortured  hour  before  she  endeavored  to  compose 

129 


The  Message 

herself  for  sleep,  and  she  was  denied  the  consolation 
of  knowing  that  the  woman  who  destroyed  her  happi- 
ness was  pacing  another  room  like  a  caged  tigress, 
and  striving  to  devise  some  means  of  extricating  her- 
self from  the  morass  into  which  Figuero's  tidings  and 
her  own  rashness  had  plunged  her. 


130 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SHOWING  HOW  MANY  ROADS  LEAD  THE  SAME  WAY 

NEXT  day,  her  mind  restored  to  its  customary  equi- 
poise, Evelyn  thought  she  would  be  acting  wisely  if  she 
gave  Warden  some  hint  of  recent  developments.  Too 
proud  to  ask  for  an  explicit  denial  of  Rosamund  Laing's 
claim,  she  saw  the  absurdity  of  letting  affairs  drift 
until  the  hoped-for  meeting  at  Madeira.  At  first,  she 
thought  of  resigning  her  post  as  Beryl's  companion,  and 
returning  to  Oxfordshire,  but  she  set  the  notion  aside 
as  unreasonable  and  unnecessary.  Most  certainly 
Warden  should  not  be  condemned  unheard.  Without 
pressing  him  for  a  definite  statement  with  regard  to 
Mrs.  Laing,  it  was  a  simple  matter  to  put  the  present 
situation  before  him  in  such  guise  that  he  could  not 
choose  but  refer  to  it.  So,  after  drafting  a  few  sen- 
tences, and  weighing  them  seriously,  she  incorporated 
the  following  in  a  letter  of  general  import: 

"Yesterday  we  had  three  new  arrivals  whose  names 
must  appeal  to  you  powerfully.  First,  a  Mrs.  Rosa- 
mund Laing  came  here  from  London,  and  she  lost  no 
time  in  telling  me,  among  other  things,  that  she  was 
aware  of  our  meeting  at  Cowes.  Her  informant,  I 
am  sure,  was  Miguel  Figuero,  and  you  will  be  even 

131 


The  Message 

more  astonished  to  learn  that  he  and  Count  von  Rip- 
penbach  turned  up  by  the  same  train  as  Mrs.  Laing. 
The  latter,  by  the  way,  said  that  you  called  on  her  at 
Lady  Hilbury's  when  in  London.  Is  that  true  ?  There 
are  some  hidden  forces  in  motion  at  Lochmerig  which 
I  do  not  understand.  Mr.  Baumgartner  tackled  me 
openly  at  dinner  with  regard  to  my  journey  from 
Cowes  to  Oxfordshire.  We  know  from  Peter  that 
Figuero  saw  us  together  that  morning,  and  your  Por- 
tuguese friend  evidently  recognized  me  at  once.  But 
Mr.  Baumgartner's  pointed  reference  to  Langton  as 
my  destination  was  rather  puzzling.  How  does  it 
strike  you?  I  expect  my  news  will  prove  rather  in 
the  nature  of  a  thunderbolt,  and  that  is  usually  a  very 
striking  article.  I  assure  you  I  am  somewhat  shaken 
myself.  Mrs.  Laing's  personal  attributes  remind  one 
of  those  galvanic  batteries  you  see  at  fairs  in  the  country 
—  the  more  you  try  to  endure  her  magnetic  influence, 
the  greater  your  collapse." 

Before  sealing  the  envelope,  she  re-read  Warden's 
latest  letter.  She  even  read  it  aloud,  and  the  straight- 
forward, honest,  loving  words  assumed  a  new  signifi- 
cance. Then  she  turned  to  her  own  effusion,  and 
viewed  it  critically.  To  her  surprise,  she  detected  a 
jarring,  somewhat  cynical,  note  in  those  passages 
which  she  regarded  as  all-important.  To  her  judg- 
ment, events  in  the  near  future  would  follow  a  well- 
defined  course.  Her  lover  would  say  whether  or  not 
he  had  met  Mrs.  Laing  in  London,  and  give  the  clearest 
reasons  for  his  omission  of  her  name  from  the  subse- 

132 


Showing  How  Many  Roads 

quent  recital  of  his  adventures.  Evelyn  would  count 
the  hours  until  that  reply  reached  her  hands.  Per- 
haps Mrs.  Laing's  curiosity  anent  Warden's  skill  in 
"wriggling"  would  then  be  sated.  She  might  even 
give  an  exhibition  of  the  wriggler's  art  in  her  own 
behalf. 

Evelyn  refused  to  admit  now  that  she  had  ever 
yielded  to  doubt  or  anxiety.  The  hysterical  outburst 
of  last  niglit  was  natural,  perhaps,  under  the  circum- 
stances, but  quite  nonsensical.  Even  Warden  himself 
must  be  made  to  believe  that  Mrs.  Laing  was  only 
indulging  an  exuberant  sense  of  humor  in  claiming 
his  fealty.  Meaning,  therefore,  to  tone  down  any 
apparent  asperity  in  the  paragraph  referring  to  the 
three  newcomers,  she  added  a  few  lines  beneath  her 
signature. 

"The  Men  of  Oku  have  not  yet  appeared.  I  am 
longing  to  see  them.  They  are  really  the  most  pic- 
turesque villains  in  the  piece.  I  am  just  going  for  a 
stroll  by  the  side  of  the  loch,  and  I  shall  not  be  a  little 
bit  alarmed  if  I  find  a  decorated  calabash  sailing  in 
with  the  tide." 

There  is  nothing  new  in  the  fact  that  the  most  im- 
portant item  in  a  woman's  letter  is  often  contained  in 
a  postscript,  but  never  did  the  writer  of  a  harmless 
and  gossipy  missive  achieve  such  amazing  results  as 
Evelyn  Dane  brought  to  pass  by  the  words  she  scribbled 
hurriedly  after  the  magic  letters  "P.S." 

For  others  than  Evelyn  Dane  were  taking  thought 
that  morning.  Baumgartner,  von  Rippenbach,  and 

133 


The  Message 

Figuero  —  locked  in  the  library,  and  seated  round  a 
small  table  drawn  well  away  from  the  door  —  were 
settling  the  final  details  of  a  scheme  that  aimed  at 
nothing  less  than  a  very  grave  alteration  in  the  political 
map  of  the  world,  while  Rosamund  Laing  was  plan- 
ning an  enterprise  which  should  have  an  equally  marked 
effect  in  the  minor  sphere  of  her  own  affairs. 

Yet  the  fortunes  of  these  five  people  gathered  at 
Lochmerig,  and  of  many  millions  in  other  parts  of  the 
earth,  were  absolutely  controlled  by  one  of  those 
trivial  conditions  which  appear  to  be  so  ludicrously 
out  of  proportion  with  ultimate  achievement. 

Baumgartner,  being  a  rich  man,  objected  to  delay 
where  his  interests  were  concerned.  Refusing  to  await 
the  tardy  coming  of  a  country  postman,  he  kept  a 
groom  in  the  village  to  which  the  mails  were  brought 
by  train,  and  it  was  this  man's  duty  to  ride  in  each 
day  with  the  post-bag  for  Lochmerig  Lodge  and  return 
some  hours  later  with  the  first  out-going  budget.  The 
house  letters  were  dropped  into  a  box  in  the  entrance 
hall,  and  a  notice  intimated  that  the  time  of  clearance 
was  at  noon.  To  an  unscrupulous  woman,  such  an 
arrangement  offered  the  means  to  do  ill  deeds  that 
makes  ill  deeds  done.  Rosamund,  ready  to  dare  any- 
thing now  to  save  herself  from  contumely,  actually  set 
out  to  find  Evelyn  and  taunt  her  into  an  admission 
that  she  had  written  to  Warden. 

"Miss  Dane  is  not  in  the  house,  madam,"  said  the 
London  footman  on  duty  at  the  door.  "She  went  out 
some  time  since  —  in  that  direction,"  and  he  pointed 

134 


Showing  How  Many  Reads 

toward  the  glistening  firth  that  brought  the  North  Sea 
into  the  heart  of  Inverness. 

Mrs.  Laing  pouted  prettily. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  sighed.  "I  do  hope  she  has  not 
forgotten  to  write.  I  shall  never  find  her  in  time. 
Did  you  happen  to  notice  if  she  posted  a  letter?" 

The  footman  sought  inspiration  by  stroking  his  chin. 

"Yes,  madam,"  he  announced,  after  a  pause.  "I'm 
almost  certain  Miss  Dane  went  to  the  box.  Yes,  I'm 
sure  of  it." 

Madam  was  very  much  obliged,  and  tipped  him 
half-a-crown,  informing  him  with  a  most  charming 
smile  that  she  did  not  on  any  account  wish  Miss  Dane 
to  believe  that  she  was  suspected  of  forgetfulness.  It 
was  then  some  few  minutes  after  eleven,  and  this 
gracious  lady  was  sympathetic  enough  to  inquire  if 
the  footman  did  not  become  very  tired  of  remaining 
on  duty  so  many  hours  in  one  place. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  compared  with  London,  ma'am," 
said  he.  "Here  we  have  sunshine  —  if  the  weather  is 
fine  —  an'  fresh  air  all  the  time.  I  only  came  on  duty 
at  nine  o'clock,  an'  I  go  off  at  11.30  for  the  first  ser- 
vants' dinner." 

Mrs.  Laing  was  talking  to  Billy  Thring  in  the  hall 
when  the  postman  groom  came  to  clear  the  letter-box. 
She  darted  forward  with  that  irresistible  smile  of  hers. 

"I'm  so  glad  I  happened  to  be  standing  here,"  she 
exclaimed.  "I  have  just  remembered  that  I  have 
stupidly  left  out  of  a  letter  the  very  thing  I  most  wanted 
to  say.  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  me  if  I  hadn't 

135 


The  Message 

seen  you.  The  letter  is  addressed  to  Captain  Warden. 
May  I  have  it?" 

The  man  was  Baumgartner's  servant.  He  had 
never  before  set  eyes  on  Mrs.  Laing,  but  he  knew  the 
Honorable  Billy  quite  well,  so  he  raised  no  objection 
to  this  smartly  dressed  lady's  eager  search  for  her 
incomplete  letter.  Though  her  hands  fumbled  some- 
what, she  soon  picked  it  out. 

"Here  it  is!"  she  cried  delightedly,  "this  one — • 
Captain  Arthur  Warden,  Poste  Restante,  Ostend. 
Now,  that  will  save  me  a  heap  of  trouble.  It  was  so 
nice  of  you  to  come  in  at  the  right  moment.  You  have 
saved  me  a  lot  of  trouble." 

The  groom  grinned  as  he  pocketed  half-a-crown. 
Some  ladies  were  easy  pleased,  to  be  sure.  Even 
Billy  Thring,  experienced  hunter  of  gilded  brides,  was 
bewildered  by  Mrs.  Laing's  excited  manner. 

"Seems  to  me  I've  made  a  killin',"  he  mused  when 
she  gushed  herself  away.  "I  s'pose  old  Baumgartner 
can  be  relied  on.  He  is  all  there  as  a  rule  when  he 
talks  dollars  an'  cents,  but  he's  a  perfect  rotter  every 
other  way.  By  gad,  I'll  kid  him  into  wearin'  kilts 
before  the  end  of  the  month." 

The  notion  tickled  him.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and 
strolled  out  through  the  open  door.  A  glorious  sweep 
of  moorland  and  forest  spread  beyond  the  loch,  whose 
wavelets  lapped  the  verges  of  the  sloping  lawn  and 
gardens.  A  little  to  the  left  the  Sarw  Souci  lay  at  her 
moorings.  A  steam  launch  was  tied  to  a  neat  landing- 
stage.  A  string  of  horses  and  moor  ponies  returning 

136 


Showing  Plow  Many  Roads 

from  exercise  crossed  a  level  pasture  at  the  head  of  the 
loch.  The  letter-carrying  groom  was  clattering  down 
the  broad  carriage  drive  toward  the  distant  station, 
and  a  couple  of  gardeners  were  cutting  and  rolling 
the  green  carpet  of  grass  in  front  of  the  house. 

"He  talks  of  buy  in'  this  property,"  communed  the 
Honorable  Billy,  who  was  thirty-five  and  had  never 
earned  a  penny  in  his  life.  "Can't  be  ten  years  older 
than  me,  though  he  looks  sixty,  bein'  podgy.  Now, 
why  can't  I  have  a  stroke  of  luck  an'  rake  in  a  stack  ? 
Then  I  might  have  a  cut-in  for  the  giddy  widow." 

Evelyn's  trim  figure  emerged  from  a  tree-shrouded 
path.  She  walked  with  a  lithe  elegance  that  pleased 
Mr.  Thring's  sporting  eye. 

"Or  marry  a  girl  like  that,"  he  added.  The  wild 
improbability  of  ever  achieving  any  part  of  this  fas- 
cinating programme  brought  a  petulant  frown  to  his 
handsome,  vacuous  face. 

He  strode  up  to  one  of  the  gardeners,  a  red-whis- 
kered Caledonian,  stern  and  wild. 

"Where  the  devil  is  everybody?"  he  yawned.  "No 
shootin',  no  yachtin',  not  a  soul  in  the  billiard-room  — 
where's  the  bloomin'  crowd?" 

The  dour  Scot  looked  at  him  pityingly. 

"Aiblins  some  are  i'  bed,"  he  said,  "an*  there's 
ithers  wha  ocht  to  be  i'  bed." 

"Bully  for  you,  Rob  Roy,"  cried  Thring,  who  never 
objected  to  being  scored  off.  "Aiblins  some  people 
are  cuttin'  grass  wha  ocht  to  be  under  it,  because  they 
don't  know  they're  alive,  eh  what?" 

137 


The  Message 

"Man,  but  ye're  shairp  the  day,"  retorted  the  gar- 
dener. "Whiles  I'm  thinkin'  there's  a  guid  pig- 
jobber  lost  in  you,  Maister  Thring." 

"Pig-jobber,  you  cateran!     Why  pigs?" 

"Have  ye  no  heerd  tell  that  fowk  a  bit  saft  i'  the 
heid  have  a  wonderfu'  way  wi'  animals,  an'  pigs  are 
always  a  fine  mairket." 

"A  bit  heavy,  McToddy.  Trem  yer  whuskers  an' 
change  yer  trousies  for  a  kelt,  an'  mebbe  ye'll  crack  a 
joke  wi'  less  deeficulty." 

The  under-gardener  chortled,  for  the  Honorable 
Billy  could  imitate  the  Scots  dialect  with  an  unction 
that  was  decidedly  mirth-provoking. 

"Ma  name's  no  McToddy,"  began  the  other. 

"Well,  then,  McWhusky.  I  ken  the  noo  from  yer 
rid  neb  that  there's  michty  little  watter  in  yer  com- 
position." 

Snorting  defiance,  but  not  daring  to  pour  forth  the 
wrath  that  boiled  up  in  him,  the  man  pushed  a  mowing- 
machine  savagely  across  the  lawn. 

"  Routed ! "  smiled  Billy.  "  Bannockburn  is  avenged ! " 

"What  is  amusing  you,  Mr.  Thring?"  asked  Evelyn, 
who  had  walked  over  the  grass  unheard. 

"I  have  just  discovered  my  lost  vocation,"  he  said. 
"I  am  a  buffoon,  Miss  Dane,  an  idle  jester.  The  only 
difference  between  me  and  a  music-hall  comedian  is 
that  my  humor  is  not  remunerative." 

"Why,  when  I  left  you  last  night  you  were  on  the 
verge  of  proposing  to  Mrs.  Laing,  a  most  serious 
undertaking." 

138 


Showing  How  Many  Roads 

"Jolly  nice  woman,  Mrs.  Laing.  No  nonsense 
about  her.  We've  bin  together  the  last  half  hour,  an' 
I'm  under  the  starter's  orders,  at  any  rate." 

"Why  not  go  in  and  win?"  demanded  Evelyn, 
taking  a  kindly  interest  in  the  Honorable  one's  matri- 
monial prospects.  If  he  and  Mrs.  Laing  made  a 
match  of  it,  that  would  provide  a  very  agreeable  close 
to  a  disquieting  incident. 

"I'm  afraid  it'll  only  be  to  make  the  runnin'  for  some 
other  Johnny,"  sighed  he.  "I  was  gettin'  along  like 
a  house  a-fire,  when  all  at  once  she  remembered  she 
hadn't  said  what  she  wanted  to  say  in  a  letter  to  a 
Captain  somebody  at  Ostend,  an'  off  she  waltzed  to 
her  room.  She's  probably  writin'  sweet  nothings  to 
him  now.  Same  old  story  —  Billy  Thring  left  at  the 
post.  Gad,  that's  funny!  See  it,  eh,  what?" 

Thring  was  so  amused  by  his  own  wit  that  he  did 
not  notice  the  expression  of  pain  and  fear  that  drove 
the  brightness  from  Evelyn's  face.  But  she  herself 
was  conscious  of  it,  and  looked  away  lest  he  should 
peer  into  her  eyes,  and  wonder.  So  Mrs.  Laing  was 
writing  to  Arthur!  She  knew  his  address!  How 
strange,  how  unutterably  strange,  that  he  had  not 
once  mentioned  her  name!  The  girl,  as  in  a  dream, 
affected  to  be  watching  a  boy,  the  son  of  the  village 
post-mistress,  coming  up  the  avenue.  For  the  sake  of 
hearing  her  own  voice  in  such  commonplace  words  as 
she  might  dare  to  utter,  she  drew  her  companion's 
attention. 

"Here  is  our  telegraph  messenger,"  she  said. 
139 


Thring  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"It's  for  me,"  he  announced.  "There's  a  chap  at 
Newmarket  who  is  the  champion  loser-finder  of  the 
world,  an'  I'm  one  of  his  victims.  This  is  Leger  day, 
an'  if  you  wait  a  moment  I'll  put  you  onto  a  stiff  'un, 
sure  thing.  Then  you  must  turn  bookmaker  at  lunch, 
and  win  gloves  right  and  left  —  in  pairs,  in  fact.  I'll 
stand  your  losses  if  my  prophet  has  gone  mad  an'  sent 
a  winner." 

The  boy  made  straight  for  him,  and  commenced  to 
unfasten  the  pouch  slung  to  his  belt. 

"See?  I  told  you,"  laughed  Billy,  opening  the 
message. 

Evelyn  hardly  understood  him.  She  was  grateful 
for  the  high  spirits  that  prevented  him  from  paying 
any  heed  to  the  tears  trembling  under  her  drooping 
eyelashes.  Despite  her  brave  resolve  to  disregard 
Rosamund  Laing's  unbelievable  story,  a  whole  legion 
of  doubts  and  terrors  now  trooped  in  on  her.  She 
asked  herself  how  she  could  endure  to  live  in  the  same 
house  as  her  rival,  for  five  long  days,  until  Arthur's 
answer  came.  Would  he  receive  the  two  letters  by 
the  same  post?  Could  there  be  any  real  foundation 
for  her  rival's  boast?  The  thought  made  her  sick  at 
heart.  Fighting  down  her  dread,  she  turned  to  Thring 
hoping  to  find  a  momentary  oblivion  in  listening  to  his 
cheerful  nonsense. 

She  found  oblivion,  indeed,  but  not  in  the  shape  she 
anticipated.  Shading  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and 
holding  the  telegram  in  the  other,  her  companion  was 

140 


Showing  How  Many  Roads 

gazing  at  it  in  a  dazed  way.  His  cheeks  were  bloodless, 
the  hand  gripping  the  scrap  of  flimsy  paper  shook  as 
though  he  were  seized  with  ague,  his  whole  attitude 
was  that  of  a  man  who  had  received  an  overwhelming 
shock. 

"Mr.  Thring!"  she  cried,  startled  beyond  measure, 
"what  has  happened?" 

"My  God!"  he  wailed,  with  the  tingling  note  of 
agony  in  his  voice  that  comes  most  clearly  from  one 
whose  lips  are  formed  for  laughter.  "My  God!  And 
I  was  jesting  about  them  only  last  night!" 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  cried  again,  catching  his  arm 
because  he  swayed  like  one  about  to  faint. 

"Read!"  he  murmured.  "Fairholme  an'  the  two 
boys!  May  Heaven  forgive  me!  To  think  that  I 
should  have  said  it  last  night  of  all  nights!" 

( Evelyn  took  the  telegram  from  his  palsied  fingers, 
and  this  is  what  she  read: 

"With  deepest  regret  I  have  to  inform  you  that  the 
Earl  of  Fairholme  and  his  two  sons  were  killed  in  the 
collision  at  Beckminster  Junction  last  evening.  Their 
private  saloon  was  being  shunted  when  the  down 
express  crashed  into  it.  Letters  found  on  his  lord- 
ship's body  gave  me  your  address.  Every  one  here 
joins  in  profound  sympathy.  Please  wire  instructions. 
James  Thwaite." 

Scarce  knowing  what  she  said,  and  still  clinging 
desperately  to  the  stricken  man  at  her  side,  Evelyn 
whispered : 

"Are  they  your  relatives?" 
141 


The  Message 

And  the  answer  came  brokenly. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  That's  Ferdy  and  my  nephews ! 
And  two  such  boys!  Straight  an'  tall  an'  handsome. 
Good  Lord !  was  that  the  only  way  ? " 

Then  she  realized  the  horror  of  it.  The  crushed 
society  butterfly,  who  was  like  to  fall  to  the  ground  but 
for  her  support,  was  now  Earl  of  Fairholme.  Calling 
Brown  to  her  aid,  they  led  him  inside  the  house.  The 
butler,  impelled  to  disobey  his  master's  strict  injunc- 
tions, knocked  at  the  library  door,  and  told  Baum- 
gartner  what  had  happened. 

Von  Rippenbach  heard.  He  was  a  callous  person, 
to  whom  the  death  of  three  Englishmen  was  of  very 
slight  consideration. 

"The  very  thing!"  he  murmured.  "Now  you  have 
your  excuse.  You  can  empty  the  place  in  twenty-four 
hours." 

Rosamund  Laing,  whose  white  brows  wore  unseemly 
furrows,  was  writing  and  thinking  in  her  own  room 
when  a  maid  brought  her  the  news.  Before  her  on 
the  table  was  Evelyn's  letter,  and  the  sharp-eyed 
Scotch  lassie  saw  that  the  lady  nearly  upset  the  ink- 
stand in  her  haste  to  cover  something  with  the  blotting- 
pad.  Rosamund  was  shocked,  of  course.  Finding 
that  Thring  was  leaving  for  the  south  almost  imme- 
diately, she  then  and  there  wrote  a  sweetly  sympathetic 
note,  and  had  it  taken  to  him. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said  before  the  maid  went  out, 
"have  you  seen  Mr.  Figuero  recently?  I  mean  the 
dark-skinned  man  who  came  here  yesterday." 

142 


Showing  How  Many  Roads 

Yes,  he  had  just  left  the  library  with  the  master  and 
another  gentleman.  Rosamund  rose  at  once.  If  she 
were  not  greatly  mistaken,  Evelyn's  harmless-looking 
postscript  had  given  her  a  clue  to  the  mystery  of  Fig- 
uero's  presence  in  Baumgartner's  house.  She  knew 
her  West  Africa,  and  the  bad  repute  of  Oku  was  one 
of  her  clearest  memories.  Yet  she  turned  back  at  the 
door,  took  Evelyn's  letter  from  her  pocket,  copied  a 
portion  of  it,  and  locked  the  original  in  her  jewel  case. 

The  luncheon-gong  sounded  as  she  descended  the 
stairs,  so  perforce  she  postponed  the  interview  she 
promised  herself  with  the  Portuguese.  And,  for  the 
success  of  her  deep-laid  schemes,  it  was  as  well.  Some- 
times there  comes  to  the  aid  of  evil-doers  a  fiend  who 
contrives  opportunities  where  human  forethought  would 
fail.  Rosamund,  embarked  on  a  well-nigh  desperate 
enterprise,  suddenly  found  the  way  smoothed  by  Baum- 
gartner's wholly  unexpected  announcement  that  busi- 
ness considerations  compelled  him  to  leave  Lochmerig 
forthwith. 

"My  wife  and  I  would  have  tried  to  arrange  matters 
satisfactorily  for  our  guests,"  he  said,  "but  the  gloom 
cast  on  our  pleasant  party  by  the  unhappy  tidings 
received  this  morning  by  one  of  our  number  renders 
it  almost  impossible  for  any  of  us  to  enjoy  the  remainder 
of  a  most  memorable  and  delightful  sojourn  in  Scot- 
land." 

He  delivered  himself  of  other  platitudes,  but  Mrs. 
Baumgartner's  dejected  air  and  Beryl's  sulky  silence 
showed  plainly  enough  that  the  millionaire's  fiat  was 

143 


The  Message 

unalterable.  Polite  murmurs  of  agreement  veiled  the 
chagrin  of  people  who  had  a  fortnight  or  more  thrown 
on  their  hands  without  any  prior  arrangements.  The 
meal  was  a  solemn  function.  Everybody  was  glad 
when  it  ended. 

Rosamund  met  Figuero  in  the  hall. 

"I  am  going  to  the  village,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
walk  there  with  me?" 

He  caught  the  veiled  meaning  of  the  glance,  and 
agreed  instantly.  When  they  were  clear  of  the  house, 
she  commenced  the  attack. 

"Why  are  you  and  Count  von  Rippenbach  and  three 
men  of  Oku  in  England?"  she  asked. 

She  did  not  look  at  Figuero.  There  was  no  need. 
He  waited  a  few  seconds  too  long  before  he  laughed. 

"You  make  joke,"  he  said. 

"Do  I?  It  will  be  no  joke  for  you  when  Captain 
Warden  informs  the  Government,  if  he  has  not  done 
that  already." 

"WTiy  you  say  dem  t'ing?"  he  growled,  and  she 
was  fully  aware  of  the  menace  in  his  voice. 

"You  told  me  what  you  were  pleased  to  consider  a 
secret  last  night.  Very  well,  I  am  willing  to  trade. 
Captain  Warden  knows  what  you  are  doing.  He 
probably  guesses  every  item  of  the  business  you  and 
the  Count  were  discussing  so  long  and  earnestly  with 
Mr.  Baumgartner  in  the  library  before  lunch.  Oh, 
please  don't  interrupt"  —for  Figuero,  driven  beyond 
the  bounds  of  self-control,  was  using  words  better  left 
to  the  Portuguese  tongue  in  which  they  were  uttered 

144 


Showing  How  Many  Roads 

—  "  I  am  not  concerned  with  your  plots.  They  never 
come  to  anything,  you  know.  If  either  Count  von 
Rippenbach  or  Mr.  Baumgartner  had  your  history  at 
their  finger's  ends  as  I  have,  they  would  drop  you  like 
a  hot  cinder.  Yet,  I  am  ready  to  bargain.  Help  me, 
and  I  will  keep  my  information  to  myself." 

"What  you  want,  den?" 

She  glanced  at  him,  and  was  surprised  to  see  that 
his  face  was  livid,  almost  green  with  rage  and  per- 
plexity. It  must  be  a  grave  matter  —  this  jumble  of 
hints  in  Evelyn's  letter. 

"Can  you  read  English  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes,  leetle  piece  —  better  as  I  can  make  palaver." 

"Read  that  then." 

She  handed  him  the  copy  of  that  part  of  the  fateful 
letter  that  alluded  to  himself  and  his  affairs.  He 
puzzled  it  out,  word  by  word. 

"Where  him  lib  for?"  he  demanded. 

"That  was  written  by  Miss  Dane  and  intended  for 
Captain  Warden.  I  came  by  it,  no  matter  how,  and 
I  mean  to  make  use  of  it  in  some  way." 

With  a  rapid  movement,  he  stuffed  the  sheet  of  note- 
paper  into  a  pocket.' 

"I  keep  dem  letter,"  he  announced. 

"  Certainly.  It  is  only  a  copy.  Savvy  ?  I  have  the 
real  one  safely  put  away." 

Figuero  swallowed  something.  His  thin  lips  were 
bloodless,  and  his  tongue  moistened  them  with  the 
quick  darting  action  of  a  snake.  Rosamund,  who  was 
really  somewhat  afraid,  trusted  to  the  daylight  and  the 

145 


The  Message 

fact   that   they  were  traversing   an   open   road,  with 
cottages  scattered  through  the  glen. 

"You  cannot  humbug  me,"  she  went  on,  "but  I 
want  to  assure  you  again  that  I  am  no  enemy  of  yours. 
Now,  listen.  I  mean  to  marry  Captain  Warden,  but 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  he  is  engaged,  promised, 
to  Miss  Dane.  I  am  trying  to  stop  that,  to  break  it 
off.  Can  you  help  ? " 

"You  ask  hard  t'ing  —  in  dis  place.  In  Africa,  we 
get  Oku  man  make  ju-ju." 

She  shuddered.  The  cold  malevolence  in  his  words 
recalled  stories  she  had  heard  of  those  who  had  died 
with  unaccountable  suddenness  when  "Oku  man 
make  ju-ju." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  she  cried  vehemently.  "Tell 
me  what  is  taking  place,  and  how  it  will  affect  Captain 
Warden.  Then  I  can  twist  events  to  my  own  purpose. 
I  can  warn  him,  perhaps  prove  myself  his  friend. 
Above  all  —  where  are  you  going  to-morrow  ?  Mr. 
Baumgartner  sails  in  the  Sans  Souci,  I  hear.  Does 
Miss  Dane  go  with  him,  or  is  she  to  be  sent  away 
because  she  is  aware  of  your  plans?" 

Figuero  did  not  answer  during  a  whole  minute. 

He  saw  light,  dimly,  but  growing  more  distinct  each 
instant.  Warden  was  a  deadly  personality  in  the  field 
against  him,  and  his  active  interference  was  now 
assured  beyond  cavil.  But,  with  two  women  as  foils, 
both  beautiful,  and  one  exceedingly  well  equipped 
with  money,  there  was  still  a  chance  of  circumventing 
the  only  man  he  feared. 

146 


Showing  How  Many  Roads 

"You  steal  dem  letter?"  he  said  unexpectedly. 

"At  any  rate,  it  has  not  gone  to  Captain  Warden," 
was  the  acid  reply. 

"An*  you  write  'im.     What  you  say?" 

"Oh,  nothing  that  affects  the  case." 

"You  tole  him  me  here?" 

"No.  That  can  wait,"  which  statement,  as  shall  be 
seen,  was  strictly  untrue. 

"Well,  den,  dem  yacht  lib  for  —  for  somewheres  to- 
morrow. Dem  girl,  Mees  Dane,  go  wid  me.  You 
tole  him  dat  t'ing  as  you  say  las'  night.  I  make  wife 
palaver  to  dem  girl." 

"What  good  will  that  do?"  she  said.  "In  a  week, 
ten  days,  he  will  hear  from  her  again." 

"No.     I  take  dem  letter.     You  gib  me  Captain 
Warden  writin',  an'  I  keep  eye  for  dat.     Savvy?" 

"  But  can  you  carry  out  what  you  promised  ? " 

"Two,  free  months,  yes.  After  dem  yacht  lib  for 
Madeira,  no.  P'raps  dem  girl  be  wife  den." 

Rosamund's  dark  eyes  narrowed  to  two  tiny  slits. 
If  Figuero  could  really  keep  Warden  and  Evelyn  apart 
during  so  long  a  period,  the  utterly  hopeless  project  on 
which  she  had  embarked  in  a  moment  of  jealous  rage 
might  become  feasible.  Of  course,  the  suggestion  that 
he  would  marry  Evelyn  was  preposterous,  but  there 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  hurt  his  pride  by  telling 
him  so.  Her  heart  throbbed  madly,  while  her  active 
brain  debated  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  all-important 
question  —  should  she  post  the  letter  already  written  ? 
Yes.  It  was  the  outcome  of  her  earliest  thought.  She 

147 


The  Message 

would  follow  it  up  with  another  in  different  strain. 
The  two  would  be  vastly  more  convincing  than  one, 
and  the  dates  would  have  a  significance  that  no  mere 
contriving  could  impart. 

By  this  time  they  were  at  the  post-office,  from  which 
mails  were  dispatched  by  a  later  train  than  that  caught 
by  the  groom.  Rosamund  dropped  her  letter  in  the 
box.  She  was  quite  pale  with  suppressed  excitement. 
Her  boats  were  burnt.  She  heard  the  fall  of  the  en- 
velope into  the  receptacle,  and  the  appalling  notion 
possessed  her  that  the  sound  resembled  the  fall  of  earth 
on  a  coffin.  She  breathed  heavily,  and  pressed  a  hand 
to  her  bosom.  Figuero  was  watching  her. 

"Now  you  done  dem  t'ing,"  he  said,  "you  dash  me 
some  money." 

She  started.  Did  he  mean  to  levy  blackmail  for  his 
services  ? 

"Why?"  she  asked,  summoning  all  her  strength  of 
character  to  meet  his  gaze  without  flinching. 

"Me  buy  present  for  dem  girl.  If  I  make  wife 
palaver  dat  cost  many  dollar." 

"I  am  not  buying  your  help.  You  trade  with  me 
one  thing  for  the  other.  If  you  refuse,  I  write  to  the 
Government  about  the  men  of  Oku." 

The  Portuguese  laughed  more  naturally  than  she 
had  yet  heard  him.  If  his  arch-enemy,  Arthur  Warden, 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  mission  he  and  the  chiefs 
had  undertaken,  this  pretty  and  passionate  woman 
counted  for  very  little  in  the  scale  against  him. 

"You  dash  me  one  hunner'  poun',"  he  said  cheerfully. 
148 


Showing  How  Many  Roads 

"Jus'  dat,  no  mo'.  If  you  say  'no/  dem  girl  no  lib 
for  yacht.  Mr.  Baumgartner  say  go  one-time.  Me 
tell  'im  take  dem  girl  —  savvy  ? " 

Mrs.  Laing  savvied.  She  gave  him  thirty  pounds 
—  all  she  could  spare  from  her  purse  —  and  promised 
to  send  the  balance  to  an  address  in  London.  He  was 
fully  satisfied.  He  was  sure  she  would  not  fail  him. 
When  he  needed  further  supplies  she  would  pay  will- 
ingly. In  an  intrigue  based  on  such  lines  Miguel 
Figuero  was  an  adept. 


149 


CHAPTER  IX 

WARDEN   BEGINS   HIS   ODYSSEY 

EVELYN'S  weekly  letter  from  Scotland  usually  arrived 
by  the  mail-boat  due  at  Ostend  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon.  Warden,  sitting  on  the  plage  among  a 
cosmopolitan  crowd  that  delighted  in  its  own  antics, 
watched  the  steamer  from  Dover  picking  its  way  along 
the  coast  and  into  the  harbor.  He  was  dining  with  a 
friend  that  evening  in  one  of  the  big  hotels  on  the  sea 
front.  He  could  call  for  his  letters  after  he  had  dressed 
—  meanwhile,  he  had  an  hour  or  more  at  his  disposal, 
and  he  was  weary  of  the  frolics  of  Monsieur,  Madame 
et  Bebe,  and  of  a  great  many  other  people  who  came 
under  a  less  domestic  category. 

To  kill  tune,  he  strolled  into  the  Casino  and  drank  a 
cup  of  the  decoction  which  Belgians  regard  as  tea. 
Then  he  went  to  the  so-called  Club  to  look  at  the 
gamblers.  Play  did  not  appeal  to  him,  but  he  had 
joined  the  Cercle  Prive  because  some  men  he  knew 
went  there  regularly  for  baccarat.  To-day,  to  dispel 
the  ennui  of  existence  between  meals,  a  German  baron 
was  opening  banks  of  five  hundred  louis  each,  and 
losing  or  winning  money  with  a  bored  air.  He  had 
just  closed  one  bank  successfully,  and  the  table  was 

150 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

set  for  another,  when  a  young  American,  bright-eyed, 
clean-shaven,  and  pallid,  stirred  the  pulses  of  both  on- 
lookers and  players  by  crying,  "Banco!"  Even  in 
Ostend  one  does  not  often  see  four  hundred  pounds 
won  or  lost  at  a  single  coup.  Warden,  whose  sym- 
pathies were  against  the  stolid  banker,  stood  by  the 
side  of  the  younger  man  until  the  incident  was  ended. 

There  was  no  waiting.  The  challenger,  impassive 
as  a  Red  Indian,  gave  a  bundle  of  notes  to  the  croupier, 
who  counted  them.  The  baron  dealt  the  two  tableaux, 
and  his  adversary  stooped  and  picked  up  the  first. 

"Huit!"  he  said,  throwing  the  cards  face  upwards 
on  the  table.  He  took  the  second  pair. 

"Neuf!" 

An  excited  buzz  of  talk  rose  around  the  board.  With 
a  blase  smile,  the  banker  showed  his  cards  —  two 
queens. 

"Peste!"  cried  a  Frenchman,  "ton jours  on  souffre 
pour  les  dames!" 

Some  few  laughed;  the  German,  more  phlegmatic 
than  ever,  opened  a  pocketbook  and  started  a  fresh 
bank  for  the  same  amount,  while  the  American  col- 
lected his  stake  and  winnings.  He  was  stuffing  the 
notes  into  a  pocket  when  he  caught  Warden's  glance. 

"That's  the  easiest  way  of  making  two  thousand 
dollars  I've  ever  struck,"  he  said. 

"But  you  stood  to  lose  the  same  amount,"  said 
Warden. 

"Why,  yes.  The  only  difference  between  me  and 
the  fellow  who  puts  up  with  this  beastly  atmosphere 

151 


The  Message 

every  day  for  a  month  is  that  he  fritters  away  his  money 
at  five  or  ten  dollars  a  pop,  while  7  hit  or  miss  at  the 
first  time  of  asking." 

"You  won't  play  any  more,  then?" 

"No,  sir.  Me  for  the  tall  timbers  with  the  baron's 
wad.  'Lucky  at  cards,  unlucky  in  love,'  you  know, 
and  I've  just  heard  that  my  best  girl  has  made  a  date 
with  the  other  fellow." 

He  walked  away,  erect,  alert,  and  self-possessed. 
Warden  strolled  to  a  roulette  board. 

"I  wonder  if  that  is  true,"  he  mused. 

Instinctively  his  hand  went  to  his  pocket,  and  he 
staked  a  louis  on  29,  the  year  of  his  age.  Up  came 
29,  and  he  won  thirty-five  louis.  He  was  so  astonished 
that  he  bent  over  the  shoulders  of  a  lady  seated  near 
the  foot  of  the  table,  and  began  mechanically  to  draw 
in  the  five-hundred  franc  note  and  ten  gold  pieces  that 
were  pushed  by  a  croupier's  rake  close  to  his  own  coin. 

"But,  monsieur,"  whispered  the  lady,  who  was 
French,  and  gave  slight  heed  to  convention,  "certainly 
you  will  follow  your  luck!" 

"Why  not?"  he  answered. 

Knowing  that  the  maximum  on  a  number  was  nine 
louis,  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  that  amount  on 
29,  when  he  remembered  that  Evelyn's  age  was  twenty. 
To  the  surprise  of  his  self-appointed  counselor,  he 
told  the  croupier  to  transfer  the  gold  to  the  new  num- 
ber, while  the  note  went  on  the  19-24  transfer  sale. 
Thus,  if  he  lost,  he  was  still  a  louis  to  the  good,  and 
the  American's  consoling  adage  was  robbed  of  its  sting. 

152 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

The  roulette  whirred  round,  the  marble  danced 
madly  across  diamonds  and  slots.  Checking  its  pace, 
it  hopped,  hopped,  hopped  —  into  20  —  and  the 
Frenchwoman  nearly  became  hysterical.  Warden  re- 
ceived so  much  money  that  he  lost  count.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  had  won  just  forty  louis  less  than  the  cynic 
of  the  baccarat  table.  He  deemed  the  example  of  the 
unknown  philosopher  too  good  not  to  be  followed,  so 
he  gathered  his  gains  and  stakes,  and  left  the  room. 

Now,  most  men  would  have  felt  elated  at  this  stroke 
of  luck,  but  Warden  was  not.  Though  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  be  richer  by  nearly  three  hundred  and 
seventy  pounds,  he  wished  heartily  that  this  sudden 
outburst  of  the  gambling  mania  had  found  its  genesis 
in  some  other  topic  than  the  reputed  ill  fortune  of  a 
favored  lover.  The  incident  was  so  astounding  that 
he  began  to  search  for  its  portent.  For  a  few  seconds, 
he  saw  in  his  mind's  eye  an  evil  leer  on  the  black  face 
hidden  away  in  the  Nancy's  cabin,  and  it  almost  gave 
him  a  shock  when  he  recalled  the  fact  that  both  29 
and  20  were  black  numbers.  But  the  light  and  gaiety 
of  the  streets  soon  dispelled  these  vapors,  and  he  loitered 
in  front  of  a  jeweler's  shop  while  planning  a  surprise 
for  his  beloved.  He  had  not  yet  given  her  a  ring. 
Their  tacit  engagement  was  so  sudden,  and  their 
parting  so  complete  since  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
night  at  Plymouth,  that  he  now  fancied,  with  a  certain 
humorous  dismay,  that  Evelyn  might  long  have  been 
anticipating  the  receipt  of  some  such  token.  Well, 
she  should  own  a  ring  that  he  could  never  have  afforded 

153 


The  Message 

but  for  the  kindly  help  of  the  Casino.  There  was  one 
in  the  window  marked  "D'Occasion  —  5,000  frs." 
It  contained  three  diamonds  fit  for  a  queen's  diadem. 
He  wondered  whether  or  not,  under  the  circumstances, 
one  should  buy  a  second-hand  ring.  Would  Evelyn 
care  to  wear  an  article,  however  valuable,  that  had 
once  belonged  to  another  woman?  At  any  rate,  the 
stones  would  require  re-setting,  and  he  was  not  afraid 
of  being  swindled  in  the  purchase,  because  the  jeweler 
evidently  regarded  this  special  bargain  as  a  magnet  to 
draw  the  eyes  of  passers-by  to  his  stock. 

Five  minutes  later,  the  ring  reposed  in  a  case  in 
Warden's  pocket,  and  he  was  making  for  the  post-office. 
But  there  was  no  letter  from  Evelyn.  There  would 
have  been,  were  it  not  locked  in  Mrs.  Laing's  writing- 
case,  and  Warden  was  no  wizard  that  he  should  guess 
any  such  development  in  the  bewildering  tumult  of 
events  that  was  even  then  gathering  around  him. 
Nevertheless,  the  clerk  gave  him  a  letter  —  from  the 
Colonial  Office  —  asking  that  he  should  come  to 
London  with  the  least  possible  delay. 

Though  gratifying  to  a  man  eager  for  recognition 
in  his  service,  the  incidence  of  the  request  was  annoying. 
At  any  other  time  in  his  career  he  would  have  left 
Ostend  by  the  night  mail.  Now  he  resolved  to  wait 
until  the  morrow's  midday  service,  and  thus  secure 
Evelyn's  missive  before  his  departure.  He  read  be- 
tween the  lines  of  the  brief  official  message  clearly 
enough.  Affairs  were  growing  critical  in  West  Africa. 
At  best,  his  advice,  at  worst,  his  immediate  return  to 

154 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

duty,  was  demanded.  If  the  latter,  by  hook  or  by 
crook  he  would  contrive  to  see  Evelyn  before  he  sailed 
for  the  south. 

He  telegraphed  his  change  of  plans  to  Evelyn,  telling 
her  to  write  to  his  flat  in  London,  and  asking  her  to 
wire  saying  whether  or  not  a  letter  was  en  route  to 
Ostend.  He  bade  Peter  bring  the  Nancy  to  Dover 
and  there  await  orders,  and  then  joined  his  friend, 
who  was  sympathetic  when  he  heard  that  Warden 
must  leave  Ostend  next  day. 

"You'll  miss  the  racing,"  he  said,  "and  that  is  a 
pity,  because  I  know  of  one  or  two  good  things  that 
would  have  paid  for  your  holiday." 

Warden  laughed,  and  recounted  his  before-dinner 
experiences  in  the  Casino. 

"By  gad!"  cried  the  other,  "I  wish  I'd  been  there. 
I  know  that  German  Johnny  —  let  me  see,  he  has  a 
horse  running  to-morrow.  Here  is  the  programme  — 
third  race  —  Baron  von  Grobelstein's  'Black  Mask.* 
Eh,  what  ?  Oh,  that  is  the  gee-gee's  name  right  enough, 
but  it  hasn't  an  earthly." 

To  cloak  his  amazement,  Warden  pretended  to  be 
interested  in  the  entries.  "Black  Mask"  was  Number 
Thirteen  on  the  card.  He  could  not  help  smiling. 

"I  feel  rather  superstitious  to-day,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  back  that  horse  for  me?" 

"Certainly,  dear  boy.  But  you  are  throwing  your 
money  away.  It's  a  fifty  to  one  shot." 

"I  don't  mind.     It  is  the  Casino's  money,  anyhow." 

"Very  well.     How  much?" 
155 


The  Message 

Warden's  pocket-book,  reduced  somewhat  in  bulk 
by  the  visit  to  the  jeweler's,  came  in  evidence  again. 

"Fifty  louis,"  he  said. 

"My  dear  fellow,  it's  rank  lunacy." 

"Believe  me,  I  shall  not  care  tuppence  if  I  lose." 

"Oh,  all  right.  Give  me  your  address.  I'll  send 
you  a  telegram  about  four  o'clock  to-morrow.  You'll 
never  see  your  fifty  any  more." 

Never  before  in  his  life  had  Warden  acted  the  spend- 
thrift, but  any  surprise  he  may  have  felt  at  his  own 
recklessness  was  utterly  dissipated  when  he  received 
Rosamund  Laing's  letter  next  morning.  Though  its 
tone  was  studiously  gossipy  and  cheerful,  the  tidings 
it  contained  were  unpleasant  enough  to  lend  signifi- 
cance to  the  American's  dictum.  Its  innuendoes, 
whether  intentional  or  otherwise  —  and  Warden  was 
suspicious,  for  he  had  not  forgotten  certain  traits  of 
Rosamund's  character  —  assumed  a  sinister  aspect 
when  there  was  neither  letter  nor  telegram  from  Evelyn. 

"My  dear  Arthur"  —  wrote  this  unwelcome  cor- 
respondent —  "I  suppose  I  may  address  you  in  that 
manner  after  our  once  close  friendship  —  you  will 
think  that  marvels  are  happening  when  you  hear  that 
I  am  at  Lochmerig.  The  real  marvel  is,  however, 
that  I  should  have  obtained  your  address.  Last 
evening  Billy  Thring  —  do  you  know  him  ?  —  by  the 
way,  he  is  now  Lord  Fairholme,  since  that  sad  railway 
smash  at  Beckminster  yesterday  —  well,  Billy  Thring 
spoke  of  you.  He  means  to  cut  you  out  with  your 
little  governess  friend.  I  don't  blame  you  a  bit,  for 

156 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

she  is  very  pretty,  but,  without  telling  tales,  I  would 
warn  you  that  the  man  who  said  that  absence  makes 
the  heart  grow  fonder  was  certainly  not  a  connoisseur 
in  woman's  hearts.  Naturally,  Fairholme  flew  south 
this  morning,  and  that  clears  off  one  of  your  rivals 
temporarily.  Still,  there  are  others.  I  am  only  chaff- 
ing, of  course,  and  I  suppose  you  were  chiefly  amusing 
yourself  at  Cowes  and  elsewhere.  My  presence  here 
is  easily  accounted  for  —  I  met  the  Baumgartners  at 
Madeira  last  winter;  and  they  invited  me  to  their  Scotch 
shooting.  Isn't  B.  a  funny  little  man  ?  On  the  island 
they  used  to  call  him  by  his  initials,  I.  D.  B.  —  Illicit 
Diamond  Buyer,  you  know. 

"Now,  why  did  you  leave  me  to  fish  out  your  where- 
abouts by  sheer  accident  ?  Naughty !  Do  write  soon, 
and  tell  me  when  I  shall  see  you.  Oh,  I  was  nearly 
forgetting.  Recent  arrivals  included  a  Herr  von  Rip- 
penbach  and  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours,  Miguel 
Figuero.  Isn't  it  odd  that  they  should  come  here! 
And  a  little  bird  named  Evelyn  has  whispered  that  the 
men  of  Oku  are  making  ju-ju  nearer  home  than  the 
Benue  River.  Please  keep  out  of  it,  for  your  friends' 
sake,  and  especially  for  the  sake  of  yours  ever  sincerely, 
Rosamund." 

"P.S.  Send  a  line,  and  I  shall  give  you  more  news. 
R." 

There  was  hardly  a  word  in  that  innocent-looking 
note  that  was  not  a  barbed  shaft.  Was  it  believable 
that  Evelyn  Dane,  the  girl  whose  eyes  shone  so  divinely 
while  he  entrusted  to  her  willing  ears  his  hopes  and 

157 


The  Message 

aspirations,  should  make  him  the  butt  of  the  ninnies 
gathered  at  Lochmerig?  Yet,  that  allusion  to  the 
men  of  Oku  inflicted  a  stab  cruel  as  the  thrust  of  an 
Oku  spear.  Who  else  but  Evelyn  could  have  revealed 
his  interest  in  the  visit  of  the  negroes  to  England? 
And  who  was  this  Billy  Thring  —  whose  very  name 
suggested  inanity?  True,  Evelyn  had  mentioned  him 
as  one  of  the  house  party.  "I  find  the  Honorable 
One  very  amusing,"  she  had  said.  "He  is  the  clown 
of  our  somewhat  dull  circus."  But  there  was  no  sug- 
gestion of  friendliness  other  than  the  ordinary  civilities 
of  life  under  the  same  roof.  Again,  why  had  she  not 
written,  nor  answered  his  telegram  ?  He  laid  no  great 
stress  on  these  minor  things.  They  became  important 
only  in  the  light  of  Rosamund's  statements. 

He  read  and  re-read  the  letter  while  crossing  the 
Channel.  Before  Dover  was  reached  he  had  gone 
through  identically  the  same  thought-process  as  Evelyn 
herself  two  days  earlier.  He  found  malevolence  in 
every  line  of  Rosamund's  epistle.  It  was  meant  to 
wound.  Its  airy  comment  was  distilled  poison,  its 
assumed  levity  the  gall  of  a  jealous  woman.  Were  it 
not  for  her  wholly  inexplicable  and  confusing  allusion 
to  the  Oku  chief's  mission,  he  could  have  cast  aside 
with  a  scornful  laugh  her  sly  hints  as  to  Evelyn's  faith- 
lessness. Even  then,  puzzled  and  angry  though  he  was, 
he  remained  true  in  his  alliegance  to  his  affianced  wife. 

"Why  should  there  not  be  some  devil's  brew  where 
such  men  as  Figuero  and  Baumgartner  foregather?" 
he  asked  himself.  "It  exists,  as  I  well  know,  and 

158 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

Rosamund  Laing  is  just  the  woman  to  sip  it.  I  wish 
now  that  I  had  insisted  more  firmly  on  Evelyn's  re- 
moval from  the  Baumgartner  gang.  I  was  mad  not 
to  ask  her  to  marry  me  at  once.  We  could  have  man- 
aged somehow,  and  she  would  have  borne  the  separa- 
tion for  a  year  or  more." 

Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  two  hundred  pounds' 
worth  of  diamonds  in  his  pocket  would  almost  have 
furnished  a  country  cottage,  and,  to  crown  all,  there 
was  the  exquisite  folly  of  the  bet  on  a  horse  that  his 
sporting  friend  described  as  a  hopeless  outsider.  His 
misery  was  not  complete  till  the  memory  of  another 
jewel  intruded  itself  —  a  ruby  that  had  waited  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years  for  an  owner.  Certainly, 
Arthur  Warden  experienced  a  most  perplexed  and 
soul-tortured  journey  to  London. 

He  drove  straight  to  his  flat.  Two  telegrams  awaited 
him.  One  must  be  from  Evelyn,  of  course.  She  had 
chosen  to  send  a  message  there,  rather  than  risk  missing 
him  at  Ostend.  But  he  was  wrong.  The  first  he 
opened  read:  "Baumgartner  and  everybody  else  have 
gone.  I  am  coming  to  London.  Staying  at  Savoy. 
Rosamund." 

His  brain  was  still  confused  by  this  strange  substi- 
tution of  one  woman  for  another,  when  his  eyes  fell  on 
the  contents  of  the  second  telegram: 

"Black  Mask  won.  Took  you  forties.  Congratu- 
lations, Dick." 

The  perplexity  in  his  face  attracted  the  sympathy  of 
the  hall  porter. 

159 


The  Message 

"I  'ope  you've  had  no  bad  news,  sir,"  said  the  man0 

Warden  laughed  with  a  harshness  that  was  not  good 
to  hear. 

"No,"  he  said,  "just  the  reverse.  I  backed  a  horse 
and  he  has  won,  at  forty  to  one." 

The  hall  porter,  like  most  of  his  class,  was  a  sports- 
man. 

"Lord  love  a  duck!"  he  cried,  "that's  the  sort  you 
read  about  but  seldom  see,  sir.     Where  did  he  run  — 
at  Newmarket?" 

"No,  at  Ostend." 

The  man's  hopes  of  obtaining  good  "information" 
diminished,  but  he  was  supremely  interested. 

"Wot  a  price!"  he  exclaimed.  "Did  you  have 
much  on,  sir  ?  " 

"Forty  pounds." 

"Forty  pounds!  Then  you've  won  sixteen  hundred 
quid!"  and  each  syllable  was  a  crescendo  of  admiration. 

Warden  threw  the  telegram  on  the  floor.  Though 
the  last  twenty-four  hours  had  enriched  him  by  nearly 
five  years'  pay,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  greet  his  good 
fortune  as  it  deserved. 

"Yes,"  he  sighed,  "I  suppose  you  are  right.  Un- 
pack my  traps,  there's  a  good  fellow.  I  am  going  out, 
and  I  want  to  change  my  clothes." 

The  hall  porter  obeyed,  but  he  would  have  choked 
if  speech  were  forbidden.  He  wanted  to  know  the 
horse's  name,  how  the  gentleman  had  come  to  hear  of 
him,  was  the  money  "safe,"  and  other  kindred  items 
that  goaded  Warden  to  hidden  frenzy.  Yet  the  forced 

160 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

attention  thus  demanded  was  good  for  him.  He 
described  "Black  Mask"  as  "a  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine 
breed,"  and  drew  such  a  darksome  picture  of  the 
precautions  taken  by  the  "stable"  to  conceal  the 
animal's  true  form  that  the  man  regarded  him  as  a 
veritable  fount  of  racing  lore. 

Such  a  reputation,  once  earned,  is  not  easily  shaken 
off.  When  he  went  out,  the  hall  porter  and  the  driver 
of  a  hansom  were  in  deep  converse.  He  paid  the 
cabman  at  the  Colonial  Office,  and  his  mind  was  busy 
with  other  things  when  he  was  brought  back  to  earth 
again. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  cabby,  "but  would  you 
mind  tellin'  me  the  best  thing  for  the  Cup." 

"What  Cup?"  demanded  Warden  testily. 

"The  Liverpool  Cup,  sir." 

"Beer,  of  course." 

He  escaped.  But  the  cabman  took  thought.  An 
eminent  brewer's  horse  figured  in  the  betting  lists,  so 
he  drove  back  at  once  to  interview  the  hall  porter.  A 
joint  speculation  followed,  and  two  men  mourned  for 
many  a  day  that  they  had  not  begged  or  borrowed 
more  money  wherewith  to  win  a  competence  on  that 
amazingly  lucky  tip. 

Warden  did  not  expect  to  find  any  one  at  the  Colonial 
Office  who  would  attend  to  him.  The  hour  was  nearly 
seven,  and  it  is  a  popular  theory  that  at  four  o'clock 
all  secretaries  and  civil  servants  throw  aside  the  news- 
papers and  other  light  literature  with  which  they  beguile 
the  tedium  of  official  routine.  He  meant  to  report  his 

161 


The  Message 

arrival  in  London,  and  learn  from  a  door-keeper  what 
time  it  would  be  advisable  to  call  next  day. 

He  was  hardly  prepared,  therefore,  to  be  received 
forthwith  by  a  silver-haired,  smooth-spoken  gentleman, 
who  asked  him  to  recapitulate  the  main  points  of  his 
conversation  with  the  Under  Secretary  at  the  Foreign 
Office. 

Somewhat  mystified,  Warden  began  his  recital. 
After  the  first  two  sentences,  the  official  nodded. 

"Thank  you,  Captain  Warden,  I  need  not  trouble 
you  further,"  he  said.  "You  see,  we  are  not  personally 
known  to  each  other,  and  in  such  an  exceedingly  deli- 
cate matter  as  this  threatened  difficulty  in  Nigeria  — 
wherein  knowledge  is  confined  to  a  very  small  circle 
—  one  has  to  be  careful  that  one  is  speaking  to  the 
right  man." 

"Did  you  think  it  possible,  then,  that  some  stranger 
might  have  impersonated  me?"  demanded  Warden, 
his  eyes  twinkling  at  the  suggestion. 

"Quite  possible.  I  have  done  it  myself  twice,  the 
first  time  successfully,  the  second  to  the  complete 
satisfaction  of  our  Minister  abroad,  but  hardly  to  my 
own,  as  I  had  two  fingers  of  my  left  hand  shot  off  while 
making  a  dash  for  safety." 

Certainly,  reflected  Warden,  there  were  elements  in 
the  life  of  Whitehall  that  escaped  public  notice. 

"We  have  sent  for  you  because  you  are  wanted  at 
once  in  West  Africa,"  went  on  the  other.  "Letters  to 
and  from  the  Governor  of  Northern  Nigeria  have 
culminated  in  a  cablegram  from  the  Governor  asking 

162 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

that  you  should  be  recalled  from  furlough.  Though 
you  are  attached  to  the  southern  portion  of  the  Pro- 
tectorate, his  Excellency  has  the  highest  appreciation 
of  your  tact  and  ability.  He  thinks  you  are  the  man 
best  fitted  to  deal  with  the  natives  of  the  disturbed 
region.  It  is  not  proposed  that  you  should  return  by 
the  ordinary  mail  service.  We  assume  that  the  de- 
parture of  officers  and  others  for  Lagos  is  closely 
watched  at  the  present  crisis.  A  passage  has  been 
secured  on  a  coasting  steamer  for  a  mythical  personage 
named  Alfred  Williams.  Initials  on  baggage  or  linen, 
therefore,  cannot  cause  inquiry.  Now,  the  Water 
Witch  sails  from  Cardiff  by  Saturday  afternoon's  tide, 
and  we  would  like  Mr.  Alfred  Williams  to  go  on  board 
that  morning." 

Warden  looked  blankly  at  the  speaker.  It  was  then 
Thursday.  It  left  him  little  more  than  a  day  in  which 
to  unravel  the  mystery  that  enveloped  Evelyn  and  her 
whereabouts.  A  bitter  rage  welled  up  in  his  breast, 
but  he  controlled  his  face,  and  the  official  attributed 
his  silence  to  the  suddenness  of  his  suggested  departure. 

"I  am  sorry  that  your  leave  should  be  spoiled  in 
this  fashion,"  continued  the  quiet  voice.  "But  it  is 
unavoidable.  The  thing  presses.  And  I  need  scarcely 
tell  you  that  when  Government  wants  a  man's  service 
it  is  good  for  the  man." 

"I  shall  be  on  board  the  Water  Witch  on  Saturday," 
said  Warden. 

Perhaps  the  lack  of  enthusiasm  in  his  manner  was 
puzzling,  but  the  suave  official  paid  no  heed. 

163 


The  Message 

"And  now  for  your  instructions,"  he  said.  "The 
vessel  touches  at  Cape  Coast  Castle  before  going  on 
to  Lagos.  You  will  be  met  there  by  some  officer  whom 
you  are  acquainted  with.  He  will  tell  you  the  exact 
position  of  affairs,  and  what,  if  any,  developments 
have  taken  place  in  the  meantime.  He  will  also  give 
you  the  Governor's  views  as  to  the  way  in  which  your 
experience  of  the  natives  can  best  be  utilized.  I  leave 
it  to  you  to  take  the  necessary  precautions  to  conceal 
your  movements  and  identity,  and  I  am  authorized  to 
hand  you  £250  to  meet  any  expenses  incidental  to 
your  mission.  Your  passage  on  the  Water  Witch  is 
paid  for,  by  the  way." 

Again  the  older  man  failed  to  understand  why  the 
young  officer  should  laugh  with  the  grim  humor  of 
one  who  bids  fate  do  her  worst.  Certainly,  the  situa- 
tion had  in  it  some  element  of  comedy.  Gold  was 
being  showered  on  Warden  from  the  skies  —  promo- 
tion and  distinction  were  thrust  upon  him  —  yet  he 
was  miserable  as  any  man  in  England  that  day. 

"Something  on  his  mind  —  is  it  a  woman  ?"  mused 
the  shrewd  official,  and  the  time  came  when  he  remem- 
bered the  idle  fancy. 

In  the  freedom  of  the  street  Warden  soon  recovered 
himself.  Not  even  an  all-absorbing  passion  —  ren- 
dered more  intense  by  reason  of  his  self-contained 
nature  —  could  deprive  him  of  the  habit  of  years. 
In  the  Colonial  Office  at  the  moment  lay  a  letter  from 
the  Governor  of  Southern  Nigeria  commending  him 
in  the  highest  terms  for  his  cool  judgment,  resource- 

164 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

fulness,  and  decision.  He  showed  these  qualities  now. 
He  hurried  to  Charing  Cross,  and  despatched  three 
telegrams,  one  to  Evelyn,  begging  her  to  communicate 
with  him  instantly,  a  second  to  his  friend  in  Ostend, 
thanking  him  for  his  kindly  offices  and  requesting  that 
the  money  should  be  paid  into  a  named  bank,  and  the 
third  to  the  Harbor  Master  at  Dover,  asking  him  to 
inform  Peter  Evans,  of  the  pilot-cutter  Nancy,  that  he 
must  travel  to  London  by  the  earliest  train  after  arriv- 
ing from  Ostend. 

Then  he  went  to  the  Savoy. 

Rosamund's  telegram  had  been  handed  in  at  Loch- 
merig  the  previous  night.  It  occurred  to  Warden  that 
she  must  have  written  it  about  the  time  his  message  to 
Evelyn  was  delivered.  If  so,  and  it  was  true  that  the 
Baumgartner  household  had  already  departed  on  board 
the  Sans  Souci,  there  was  an  obvious  question  to  be 
answered. 

As  he  anticipated,  Mrs.  Laing  was  in  the  hotel.  In 
fact,  she  was  about  to  dine  in  her  own  room  when 
Warden's  card  was  brought  to  her.  She  hastened  to 
meet  him,  all  smiles  and  blushes. 

"How  awfully  good  of  you  to  come  so  soon!"  she 
cried.  "And  at  just  the  right  hour!  I  hate  eating 
alone,  but  I  dislike  still  more  being  at  a  table  by  myself 
in  a  big  hotel.  You  can't  have  dined.  Let  us  go  to 
the  cafe,  and  then  it  doesn't  matter  about  one's  toilette." 

"I  don't  wish  to  disturb  your  arrangements" — he 
began,  but  she  was  not  to  be  forced  into  a  serious  dis- 
cussion at  once. 

165 


The  Message 

"Who  said  anything  about  disturbance?"  she 
rattled  on.  "You  could  not  have  met  my  wishes 
better  if  you  had  guessed  them.  Now,  don't  look  so 
glum.  It  is  not  my  fault  that  your  pretty  governess 
was  ready  to  flirt  with  other  men,  is  it?  Come  and 
eat,  and  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  it." 

He  fell  in  with  her  mood.  A  woman  will  dare  any- 
thing when  she  loves  or  hates,  and  he  credited  Rosa- 
mund with  excess  in  both  directions.  Yet  it  would  be 
strange,  he  thought,  were  she  playing  some  deep  game 
not  immediately  discernible,  if  he  did  not  unravel  the 
tangled  skein  of  her  deceit. 

"I  got  your  letter,  of  course,"  he  said  when  they 
were  seated. 

"Ah,  then  I  guessed  correctly.  That  is  why  you 
are  disconsolate,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  frankly. 

"It  may  be.  At  present  I  am  chiefly  curious.  How 
did  you  obtain  my  London  address?" 

"Didn't  you  telegraph  it?" 

"To  Miss  Dane  — yes." 

"You  dear  man,  what  would  you  have  done  if  a 
telegram  were  brought  to  a  remote  place  in  the  High- 
lands for  a  lady  whom  you  knew  was  gone  goodness 
knows  where  in  a  yacht?" 

"Surely  it  might  have  been  forwarded  to  her?" 

"Yes,  if  you  or  I,  or  any  other  reasonable  being, 
were  the  addressee.  But  the  Baumgartners  gave  in- 
structions that  everything  was  to  be  sent  to  their 
London  house,  which  is  closed,  except  for  a  care- 
taker. Mrs.  Baumgartner  herself  told  me  they  did 

166 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

not  expect  to  be  in  town  under  a  month  or  six 
weeks." 

"Have  they  vanished  into  thin  air?" 

"Something  of  the  kind.  They  spoke  vaguely  of  a 
cruise  round  the  Shetlands,  but  I  am  sure  that  was 
meant  as  a  blind.  They  wouldn't  take  Figuero  and 
von  Rippenbach  as  their  sailing  companions  for  the 
mere  fun  of  the  thing,  would  they?" 

"Did  they  offer  no  excuse  to  their  guests?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Billy  Thring  —  sorry,  but  I  must  men- 
tion him  —  well,  his  brother's  death  was  the  ostensible 
reason.  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  I.  D.  B.  is  not 
the  man  to  break  up  a  pleasant  house  party  because 
one  of  its  members  has  suffered  a  bereavement.  There 
is  something  else  going  on.  I  am  honestly  feminine 
enough  to  want  to  know  what  it  is.  I  was  simply 
dying  of  curiosity  yesterday  when  I  saw  Figuero  and 
the  dainty  Evelyn  in  the  garden,  discussing  things 
with  bated  breath." 

Warden  frowned.  He  could  keep  a  tight  rein  on  his 
emotions,  but  this  was  trying  him  high. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  how  a  man  who  is 
dining  with  a  lady  can  best  express  polite  incredulity 
at  her  statements?"  he  asked. 

"Very  neat,"  she  retorted,  "but  in  this  instance  you 
are  the  water  and  I  the  duck.  If  you  think  I  am 
deliberately  telling  you  untruths,  why  not  choose  some 
less  exciting  topic  ?  How  did  you  like  Ostend  ?  I 
adore  it.  The  people  amuse  me  —  they  are  so  naively 
shocking,  or  shocked,  as  the  case  may  be.  Did  you 

167 


The  Message 

see  that  fat  Frenchman  who  struts  about  in  a  ridicu- 
lously tight  and  glaring  bathing  suit?" 

"Of  course  you  want  to  talk  about  Lochmerig,"  he 
said  quietly.  "Now,  Mrs.  Laing,  it  will  be  wiser  to 
speak  in  plain  language.  Evelyn  Dane  is  my  prom- 
ised wife.  If  possible,  I  would  marry  her  to-morrow. 
That  is  no  figure  of  speech.  If  she  were  here  now, 
and  the  law  permitted,  I  would  marry  her  within  the 
hour.  You  know  me  well  enough  to  believe  that  once 
my  mind  is  made  up  I  do  not  change.  Well,  then, 
why  are  you  endeavoring  to  create  discord  between  me 
and  the  woman  I  love?" 

Rosamund  flushed.  She  had  expected  him  to  say 
something  of  the  kind,  but  it  was  none  the  less  dis- 
agreeable in  the  hearing.  The  fury  that  convulsed 
her  found  a  ready  outlet  in  the  tears  that  stood  in  her 
beautiful  eyes. 

"It  is  very  unkind  of  you  to  blame  me,"  she  half 
sobbed.  "How  could  I  make  up  all  these  wicked 
inventions  ?  I  had  never  even  heard  the  girl's  name 
before  I  went  to  Lochmerig.  It  was  her  own  foolish 
tongue  that  revealed  things  —  about  you  —  and  the 
men  of  Oku  —  and  —  and  —  what  you  saw  that  night 
at  Cowes.  She  is  either  very  wicked  or  very  thought- 
less, Arthur.  If  you  are  engaged  in  some  secret  busi- 
ness for  the  Government,  and  she  were  really  true  to 
you,  would  she  ever  have  spoken  of  it  to  Billy  —  to 
Lord  Fairholme?" 

Warden  was  beaten.  He  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine 
and  drank  it.  He  felt  that  if  he  spoke  at  once  his 

168 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

voice  might  betray  the  agony  of  his  soul.  Ah,  if  only 
he  might  see  Evelyn  for  five  precious  minutes !  Better 
go  to  Africa  with  his  dear  idol  shattered  than  carry 
with  him  the  lingering  torture  of  doubt. 

"I  think  you  were  right  when  you  switched  our  talk 
off  to  Ostend,"  he  muttered  at  last.  "May  I  give  you 
a  word  of  advice?  Forget  what  you  have  just  said. 
It  is  a  dangerous  problem  —  one  not  to  be  settled  by 
women's  tongues." 

So  they  left  it  at  that,  and  when  they  parted,  not 
without  a  tacit  understanding  that  they  would  meet 
again  at  the  earliest  opportunity  —  for  Warden  was 
obliged  to  be  ambiguous  in  that  respect  —  Rosamund 
was  sure  that  she  had  gained  some  ground  in  a  pitiless 
struggle.  Warden  was  desperately  unhappy.  That 
was  her  second  success.  She  had  won  the  first  move 
when  the  Sans  Souci  carried  Evelyn  off  the  field. 

Early  next  morning  Warden  went  to  a  shipping 
office,  and  the  people  there  advised  him  to  send  a 
reply-paid  telegram  to  the  coast-guard  station  nearest 
Lochmerig.  He  soon  received  an  answer.  "The 
Sans  Souci  sailed  Wednesday,  3  P.M.  Destination 
believed  Shetlands,  but  headed  southeast  by  east." 

He  passed  many  hours  in  writing  a  full  statement  of 
everything  that  had  taken  place  —  including  copies  of 
Rosamund's  letter  and  telegram,  and  a  literal  record 
of  their  conversation  in  the  hotel  —  and  enclosed  the 
ring  and  the  manuscript  in  a  stout  linen  envelope. 
When  Peter  Evans  came  to  him  in  the  evening,  he 
gave  him  the  package  and  fifty  pounds,  with  explicit 

169 


The  Message 

details  as  to  its  safeguarding  and  the  reasons  which 
governed  his  present  decision. 

"You  are  to  find  Miss  Dane,  no  matter  what  the 
cost,"  he  said.  "You  may  hear  of  her  at  her  home  in 
Oxfordshire,  or  at  this  address,  where  you  have  my 
permission  to  open  any  letters  that  arrive  during  my 
absence.  If  you  run  short  of  money,  or  are  compelled 
to  take  an  expensive  journey,  apply  to  my  bankers.  I 
shall  leave  full  instructions  that  your  requirements  are 
to  be  met  when  you  explain  them.  The  one  thing  I 
want  you  to  do  is  to  deliver  this  letter  into  Miss  Dane's 
own  hands." 

Peter,  somewhat  awestricken  by  Warden's  gravity, 
yet  proud  of  the  trust  placed  in  him,  promised  obedience. 

"Never  fear,  sir,"  he  said.  "If  the  Sans  Souci  is 
afloat  on  the  seven  seas  I'll  get  her  bearin's  one  way  or 
another.  Sink  me!  if  I  don't  find  that  gal  afore  a 
month,  I'll  unship  my  prop,  sell  the  Nancy,  an'  go  to 
the  wokkus." 

In  disposing  of  his  belongings,  Warden  packed  the 
gourd  and  the  parchment  among  some  heavy  clothing 
which  was  useless  in  Africa.  He  told  the  hall  porter 
exactly  which  portmanteaus  he  meant  to  take  with 
him,  but  on  arriving  at  Paddington  Station  at  4.30  A.M. 
on  a  cold  morning,  he  found  the  bag  containing  the 
gourd  and  parchment  piled  with  the  rest  of  his  goods 
on  the  platform. 

He  eyed  it  resentfully,  but  yielded. 

"So  you  mean  to  stick  to  me!"  he  growled.  "You 
mesmerized  that  sleepy  scoundrel  into  carrying  you 

170 


Warden  Begins  His  Odyssey 

downstairs  and  depositing  you  on  the  roof  of  my  cab. 
Very  well.  Let  us  see  the  adventure  through  in  com- 
pany." 

He  was  chatting  with  the  skipper  of  the  Water  Witch 
one  day  while  the  ship's  position  was  being  pricked 
off  on  the  chart. 

"You  are  keeping  close  in  to  the  Spanish  coast, 
Captain,"  said  the  passenger. 

"Not  particularly,  Mr.  Williams,"  was  the  reply. 

"But  I  have  always  been  under  the  impression  that 
vessels  bound  for  the  West  Coast  headed  for  the 
Canaries?" 

"So  they  do,  if  they're  logged  for  a  straight  run.  It 
happens  this  time,  however,  that  my  ole  tub  has  to  call 
in  at  Rabat  and  Mogador." 

"At  Rabat!"  repeated  Mr.  Williams,  seemingly 
staggered  at  the  mere  mention  of  the  place. 

"Yes,  funny  little  hole.     Ever  bin  there?" 

"No." 

"Well,  p'raps  you'll  go  ashore.  If  you  do  you'll  see 
the  queerest  collection  of  humans  you've  ever  set  eyes 
on." 

Mr.  Williams  turned  and  gazed  at  the  horizon. 

"I  think  I'm  bewitched,"  he  muttered. 

"Wot's  that?" 

"Odd  thing.     I've  been  dreaming  of  Rabat!" 

The  captain  grinned. 

"WThen  you've  seen  it  you'll  fancy  it's  a  nightmare," 
he  said. 


171 


CHAPTER  X 

HASSAN'S  TOWER  —  AND  THE  COLONIAL  OFFICE 

WARDEN  did  not  find  Rabat  so  intolerable  as  the 
captain  of  the  Water  Witch  led  him  to  believe.  Its 
streets  were  more  regular  and  cleaner,  or  less  dirty, 
than  those  of  the  average  Moorish  town.  Its  people 
seemed  to  be  devoted  to  commerce  —  probably  because 
they  are  not  pure-blooded  Moors,  but  of  Jewish  descent. 
That,  at  least,  is  the  argument  advanced  by  a  man 
from  Fez  or  Tafilat  when  he  wants  a  heavier  dowry 
with  a  Rabati  bride. 

From  the  roadstead,  once  the  troublesome  bar  was 
crossed,  the  town  looked  attractive.  Its  white  houses 
were  enshrined  in  pretty  gardens.  Orchards,  vine- 
yards, and  olive-groves  brightened  the  landscape.  To 
the  north,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  a  swift  river,  cul- 
tivated slopes  stretched  their  green  and  gold  to  the 
far-off  Zemmur  mountains.  A  picturesque  citadel, 
built  by  a  renegade  Englishman  in  the  bad  old  days, 
commanded  the  harbor,  and  a  spacious  landing-place 
showed  that  the  Rabatis  opposed  no  difficulties  to  the 
export  of  their  Morocco  leather,  carpets,  Moorish 
slippers,  and  pottery. 

The  Water  Witch  entered  the  river  soon  after  dawn, 
172 


Hassan 's  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

and  Warden  was  assured  that  she  would  not  be  able 
to  clear  her  shipments  until  next  forenoon  at  the  earliest. 
He  went  ashore  and  was  agreeably  surprised  at  finding 
quite  a  large  number  of  British  and  other  European 
merchants'  offices  near  the  quay,  while  the  shields  of 
several  Vice-Consuls  and  Consular  Agents  bespoke 
some  semblance  of  law  and  order. 

In  a  word,  Rabat  looked  settled  and  prosperous. 
It  was  utterly  out  of  keeping  with  the  picture  conjured 
up  by  the  tattoo  marks  made  by  Domenico  Garcia  on 
the  skin  of  Tommaso  Rodriguez.  Still  the  Hassan 
Tower  was  no  myth.  It  was  pointed  out  to  him  by 
an  Englishman  who  had  walked  to  the  wharf  to  watch 
the  landing  of  the  ship's  boat. 

Pausing  only  to  buy  a  strong  chisel  in  a  native  shop, 
Warden  strolled  at  once  in  the  direction  of  the  tomb. 
He  would  neither  delay  his  search  for  the  ruby,  nor 
give  much  time  to  it.  If  he  failed  to  identify  the  exact 
spot  described  in  the  parchment,  or  was  unable  to 
discover  anything  after  a  speedy  examination,  assuredly 
he  would  not  spend  several  hours  in  tearing  ancient 
masonry  to  pieces.  Since  leaving  England,  Warden 
had  become  a  different  man.  Always  a  good-humored 
cynic,  he  was  now  perilously  near  the  less  tolerable 
condition  of  cynicism  without  good  humor.  Intellect 
began  to  govern  impulse.  Though  his  brain  was 
wearied  with  endeavor  to  find  a  reasonable  explanation 
of  events,  he  was  almost  convinced  that  Evelyn  must 
at  least  have  committed  the  indiscretion  of  gossiping 
about  her  adventures  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  If  only 

173 


The  Message 

she  had  written!  His  heart  kept  harping  on  that! 
Why  had  she  flown  away  with  her  employers  with- 
out ever  a  sign  that  her  thoughts  were  with  the  man 
she  loved  ? 

He  wondered  if  Peter  Evans  had  found  her.  If  so, 
there  would  be  news  at  Cape  Coast  Castle,  for  he  had 
given  his  bankers  explicit  directions,  and  a  member  of 
the  firm  was  a  personal  friend  who  would  attend  to 
cablegrams  and  letters. 

The  Hassan  Tower  stood  on  a  height  not  far  beyond 
the  outermost  city  wall,  Rabat  being  dignified  with 
two  lines  of  fortifications,  built  by  Christian  slaves 
centuries  ago.  Indeed,  when  Warden  climbed  the  hill 
of  which  it  formed  the  pinnacle,  he  realized  that  it  was 
a  landmark  shown  on  a  chart  he  had  examined  the 
previous  evening.  Square  and  strong,  built  to  defy 
destruction,  and  rearing  its  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
of  exquisitely  fretted  stonework  from  a  tangled  under- 
growth of  stunted  vegetation,  it  seemed,  in  some  proud 
and  curiously  subtle  way,  to  promise  the  fulfilment  of 
Domenico  Garcia's  bequest. 

Great  marble  columns,  many  erect,  but  the  majority 
overthrown,  indicated  the  quadrangle  of  what  was 
meant  to  be  a  gigantic  mosque.  Warden  passed 
quickly  through  these  and  other  ruins;  he  caught  a  hint 
of  an  aqueduct,  looked  into  a  deep  excavation  evidently 
designed  as  a  cistern,  and  then,  with  somewhat  more 
rapid  pulse-beat,  and  a  certain  awed  wonderment 
dominating  his  mind,  made  straight  for  the  causeway 
that  led  to  the  "door  three  cubits  from  the  ground." 

174 


Hassan's  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

To  his  chagrin,  though  the  inclined  plane  itself 
might  be  ridden  by  a  man  on  horseback,  the  arched 
door  was  solidly  built  up. 

Here  was  an  unforeseen  check.  It  was  one  thing  to 
be  conscious  of  a  cooling  of  the  ardor  that  vowed  the 
adornment  of  Evelyn's  fair  hand  with  a  "gem  of  great 
price,"  but  it  was  none  the  less  baffling  and  exasperat- 
ing to  be  at  the  foot  of  the  tower  and  meet  an  apparently 
insuperable  obstacle  of  this  nature.  Was  he  brought 
to  Rabat  by  the  most  extraordinary  series  of  events 
that  could  well  have  befallen  him,  only  to  find  blind 
fate  smiling  maliciously?  The  thought  was  not  to  be 
borne.  Somehow,  anyhow,  that  tower  must  be  entered, 
or  the  spirit  of  the  hapless  Garcia  would  haunt  him 
for  ever. 

He  looked  around,  thinking  his  Arabic  would  serve 
him  in  good  stead  were  there  a  goat-herder  or  other 
tender  of  flocks  near  at  hand.  But  he  was  quite  alone 
on  the  tiny  plateau.  A  couple  of  great  storks  which 
had  built  their  nest  on  top  of  the  tower  looked  down 
at  him  with  wise  eyes.  Hundreds  of  pigeons  fluttered 
about  the  summit  or  clung  to  the  ridges  of  fretted 
stone,  while  the  only  window  visible  above  the  doorway 
was  a  hundred  feet  from  the  base. 

But  a  soldier  knows  that  every  position,  however 
impregnable  in  front,  may  be  turned  from  the  flanks. 
Before  formulating  any  method  of  attack,  he  decided 
to  survey  the  stronghold  from  all  points  of  view,  and, 
because  Garcia  mentioned  the  "third  window  on  the 
left,"  he  went  to  the  left.  On  that  side  there  were  only 

175 


The  Message 

two  windows,  each  twenty  feet  or  more  above  his  head, 
and  Warden  was  nearly  six  feet  in  height.  Then  he 
reflected  that  the  Portuguese,  writing  his  sorrowful 
legend  "to  pleasure  that  loathly  barbarian,  M'Wanga, 
King  of  Benin,"  would  surely  count  from  the  inside 
of  the  tower. 

On  he  went,  noting  each  cranny  and  fissure  in  the 
weather-beaten  mass,  until  he  reached  the  opposite 
side.  Here  were  three  windows,  and,  most  gratifying 
of  discoveries,  he  saw  that  the  Arabs  had  contrived  a 
means  of  entry  and  egress  through  the  center  window 
by  scooping  away  the  mortar  between  the  huge  blocks 
of  granite  used  for  the  foundation  story.  Debris  had 
accumulated  close  to  the  wall  in  such  quantity  that  the 
window-sill  was  not  more  than  fourteen  feet  from  his 
eyes.  To  an  active,  barefooted  Moor,  with  toes  and 
fingers  like  the  talons  of  a  vulture,  the  climb  would 
present  no  difficulty  whatever.  To  a  man  whose  nails 
were  well  kept,  and  whose  toes  would  speedily  be 
lacerated  if  not  protected  by  boots,  the  scaling  of  the 
rough  wall  was  no  child's  play.  But  Warden  began 
to  crawl  upwards  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

He  knew  that  the  ascent  would  be  easy  compared 
with  the  return,  while  a  fall  meant  the  risk  of  a  bad 
sprain,  so  he  memorized  each  suitable  foothold  as  he 
mounted,  and  often  paused  to  make  sure  of  the  deepest 
niches.  It  must  be  confessed  that  no  thought  of  other 
danger  entered  into  his  calculations.  His  military 
training  should  have  made  him  more  wary,  but  what 
had  either  experience  or  text-book  to  do  with  this 

176 


Hassan's  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

quest  of  a  jewel,  hidden  for  safety  in  a  Moorish  tomb 
so  many  years  ago? 

And  he  was  armed,  too,  quite  sufficiently  to  account 
for  any  prowling  thieves  who  might  be  tempted  to 
attack  a  stranger.  A  service  revolver  reposed  in  one 
pocket,  and  the  chisel  in  another  —  but  there  did  not 
seem  to  be  the  remotest  probability  of  human  inter- 
ference; he  had  not  seen  a  living  thing  save  the  birds 
since  he  breasted  the  hill. 

When  his  hands  rested  on  the  broken  stonework  of 
the  window  he  was  naturally  elated.  -Soon  his  eyes 
drew  level  with  it,  and  he  could  peer  into  the  interior. 
It  was  all  one  great  apartment,  not  lofty,  though  an 
arched  roof  gave  an  impression  of  height.  A  staircase 
led  to  the  upper  stories,  but  it  was  broken.  Desola- 
tion reigned  supreme.  Some  startled  pigeons  flew  out 
with  loud  clutter  of  wings  at  the  sight  of  him.  Then 
he  raised  himself  steadily  up,  and  leaped  inside,  while 
the  walls  echoed  the  noise  of  his  spring  with  the  hollow 
sound  of  sheer  emptiness. 

There  was  plenty  of  light,  but,  after  a  first  hasty 
glance,  he  gave  no  further  scrutiny  to  his  surroundings. 
Were  he  spying  out  the  land  in  an  enemy's  country,  he 
would  have  looked  at  the  littered  floor  to  find  traces  of 
any  recent  visitor.  Most  certainly  he  would  not  have 
begun  operations  in  Garcia's  hiding-place  without  first 
visiting  the  upper  rooms.  But  he  was  too  eager  and 
excited  to  be  prudent.  Evelyn  seemed  to  be  very 
near  him  at  that  moment.  He  remembered  how  her 
impetuous  attempt  to  throw  the  calabash  into  the 

177 


The  Message 

Solent  had  led  to  the  discovery  of  Garcia's  amazing 
manuscript,  and  there  was  the  spice  of  true  romance 
in  the  fact  that  now,  little  more  than  two  months  later, 
he  should  actually  be  standing  in  "the  tomb  of  the 
infidel  buried  outside  the  wall "  of  Rabat.  His  fingers 
itched  to  be  at  work.  He  was  spurred  by  an  intense 
curiosity.  He  felt  that  the  finding  of  the  ruby  would 
lend  credence  to  an  otherwise  unbelievable  story.  It 
connected  Oku  and  the  wild  Benue  of  two  and  a  half 
centuries  ago  with  Cowes  and  the  Solent  in  Regatta 
Week.  It  made  real  the  personality  of  a  long-forgotten 
tyrant,  who  perchance  lived  again  to-day  in  one  of 
those  three  negroes  he  had  seen  in  Figuero's  company. 
No  wonder,  then,  that  Warden  was  impatient.  Ten 
seconds  after  he  had  reached  the  interior  of  the  build- 
ing, he  was  bent  over  the  "deep  crack  between  the 
center  stones"  of  the  window  described  by  Garcia. 

There  could  be  no  doubting  now  which  window  the 
scribe  meant.  It  stood  next  to  that  by  which  Warden 
had  entered,  and,  sure  enough,  just  in  that  place  the 
stones  were  more  than  ordinarily  wide  apart.  The 
word  "crack"  was  ambiguous.  It  might  be  applied 
more  accurately  to  a  break  in  one  particular  stone, 
but  Warden  was  no  adept  in  the  Portuguese  tongue, 
and  the  dictionary-maker  might  be  translating  "inter- 
stice," or  "crevice,"  or  "division,"  when  he  wrote 
"crack."  At  any  rate,  the  "center  stones"  were 
sound,  but  the  mortar  between  them  was  partly  eaten 
away,  and  Warden  saw  at  once  that  in  order  to  make 
good  his  search  one  of  the  stones  must  be  prised  out 

178 


Hassan's  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

bodily.  A  crowbar  would  have  ended  the  job  in  a 
minute  when  once  the  chisel  had  cut  a  leverage,  but, 
in  the  absence  of  a  crowbar,  he  set  to  work  with  the 
chisel. 

The  mortar  became  flint-like  when  the  deodorizing 
influence  of  the  weather  ceased  to  make  itself  felt. 
Nevertheless,  the  amateur  house-breaker  labored  man- 
fully. Half  an  hour's  persistent  chipping  and  twisting 
of  the  tool  was  rewarded  by  a  sullen  loosening  of  the 
stone. 

Then  he  lifted  it  out  of  its  bed,  and  there,  nestling 
between  it  and  its  fellow,  hidden  beneath  a  layer  of 
dust  and  feathers,  lay  a  ring! 

Now,  Domenico  Garcia  spoke  of  a  "ruby,"  not  of 
a  ring,  but  it  needed  no  skilled  eye  to  detect  the  cause 
of  that  seeming  discrepancy.  The  ring  was  a  crude 
affair,  made  of  gold,  it  is  true,  but  fashioned  with 
rough  strength  merely  to  provide  a  safe  means  of 
carrying  the  great,  dark  stone  held  in  its  claws.  Garcia 
did  not  waste  words.  To  him  the  ring  was  naught, 
so  why  mention  it  ? 

The  gold  was  discolored,  of  course,  and  the  ruby  did 
not  reveal  its  red  splendor  until  Warden  had  cleansed 
it  with  his  handkerchief  and  breathed  on  it  repeatedly 
to  soften  the  dirt  deposited  on  its  bright  facets  by 
thousands  of  rainstorms.  Then  it  was  born  again 
before  his  eyes.  With  a  thrill  of  pity  rather  than 
gratification  he  gazed  on  its  new  and  glowing  life. 
"Friend,  I  am  many  marches  from  Rabat  but  few  from 
death!"  said  the  man  who  placed  it  there,  thinking 

179 


The  Message 

that  perchance  he  "might  escape."  Now  his  very 
bones  were  as  the  dust  which  had  shrouded  it 
during  all  those  years,  yet  the  wondrous  fire  in  its 
heart  shone  forth  as  though  it  had  left  the  lapidary's 
bench  but  yesterday.  Warden  even  smiled  sadly 
when  he  realized  that,  no  matter  how  his  wooing  fared, 
such  a  huge  gem  could  never  shine  on  Evelyn  Dane's 
slim  finger.  It  was  large  enough  to  form  the  center- 
piece of  some  stately  necklace  or  tiara.  He  knew 
little  about  the  value  of  precious  stones,  but  this  ruby 
was  the  size  of  a  large  marble.  He  had  once  seen  a 
diamond  that  weighed  twenty-four  carats,  and  the 
ruby  was  much  the  larger  of  the  two.  He  fancied  he 
had  read  somewhere  that  a  flawless  ruby  was  of  con- 
siderably higher  intrinsic  worth  than  a  diamond  of  the 
same  dimensions.  The  diamond  he  had  in  mind  was 
priced  at  three  thousand  pounds.  If,  then,  this  ruby 
were  flawless,  its  appearance  in  England  would  create 
something  of  a  sensation. 

And  Garcia's  story  was  true  —  that  was  the  most 
astounding  part  of  the  business.  The  magnificent 
jewel  winked  and  blinked  in  the  sunlight.  It  might 
almost  be  alive,  and  telling  him  in  plain  language  that 
the  gods  do  not  lead  men  into  strange  paths  without 
just  cause. 

Suddenly  he  caught  a  blood-red  flash  that  reminded 
him  of  the  uncanny  gleam  in  the  eyes  of  the  face  on 
the  gourd.  The  thought  was  disquieting,  but  he 
laughed. 

"I  am  becoming  a  mere  bundle  of  nerves,"  he  said 
180 


Hassan's  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

aloud.  "The  sooner  I  get  soaked  with  quinine  the 
fitter  I  shall  be.  It  must  be  the  malaria  in  my  system 
that  makes  me  see  things.  Really,  the  proper  thing  to 
do  now  is  to  give  that  beastly  mask  to  the  head  ju-ju 
man  at  Oku.  Then  it  will  be  off  my  hands,  and  he 
will  own  the  boss  fetish  of  the  whole  West  Coast." 

He  was  about  to  pocket  the  ring  when  the  question 
of  its  subsequent  disposal  occurred  to  him.  It  was 
such  a  remarkable  object  that  any  one  who  saw  it  could 
not  fail  to  question  him  as  to  its  history.  Under  exist- 
ing circumstances,  he  did  not  court  inquiry  in  that 
shape,  and  the  queer  notion  came  that,  in  all  likeli- 
hood, its  prior  owner  carried  it  slung  round  his  neck. 

"Yes,  by  Jove,  and  the  cord  strangled  him,"  mur- 
mured Warden.  Nevertheless,  not  being  in  the  least 
superstitious,  he  might  have  adopted  that  plan  of  con- 
cealing it  if  he  possessed  a  stout  piece  of  cord  or  strong 
ribbon.  But  his  pockets  contained  neither  one  nor 
the  other,  and  a  sharp  pang  came  with  the  recollection 
that,  in  a  case  of  similar  need  not  so  long  ago,  Evelyn's 
hussif  held  a  neat  coil  of  tape  that  would  have  suited 
his  purpose  exactly. 

Inside  his  waistcoat,  however,  was  a  secret  pocket 
for  carrying  paper  money.  It  was  provided  with  a 
flap  and  a  button,  and  would  serve  admirably  as  a 
hiding-place  until  he  was  able  to  entrust  the  ruby  to 
a  bank  for  transference  to  London.  So  there  it  went, 
making  a  little  lump  over  his  heart,  and  reminding  him 
constantly  that  Domenico  Garcia  had  not  deceived  him. 

He  was  about  to  climb  down  again  when  his  glance 
181 


fell  on  the  displaced  stone.  As  a  tribute  to  poor  Gar- 
cia's  memory,  he  put  it  back  in  its  bed,  and  even  took 
the  trouble  to  pour  a  few  handfuls  of  dust  and  loose 
mortar  into  the  joints,  so  that  none  might  know  it  had 
ever  been  removed.  While  thus  occupied,  his  atten- 
tion was  momentarily  drawn  to  a  pair  of  storks  circling 
lazily  above  the  tower.  He  wondered  if  they  were  the 
same  placid  couple  that  had  watched  him  earlier.  No 
bird  is  more  wide-awake  than  the  stork,  despite  its 
habitual  air  of  sleepy  indifference,  and  Warden  fancied 
that  the  noise  he  made  must  have  disturbed  the  two 
sentinels  on  the  top  of  the  building. 

The  hill-side  was  absolutely  deserted.  Far  below 
nestled  the  white  mass  of  the  town,  its  long,  low,  white- 
washed rectangles  broken  only  by  clumps  of  trees  and 
an  occasional  dome  or  minaret.  Near  the  quay  lay 
the  Water  Witch.  Her  cranes  were  busy,  two  strings 
of  coolies  were  rushing  back  and  forth  across  a  broad 
gangway,  and  the  first  mate  was  directing  operations 
from  the  bridge.  Warden  smiled.  He  had  heard  the 
flow  of  language  at  the  "Chief's"  command  when 
some  incident  on  ship-board  demanded  the  reading  of 
the  Riot  Act,  and  he  could  well  imagine  the  way  in 
which  those  scampering  Arabs  were  being  incited  to 
strenuous  effort. 

It  was  peaceful  up  here  in  the  tower  —  so  cool  and 
remote  from  the  noisy  life  of  the  port  that  he  was 
tempted  to  linger.  But  if  he  would  regain  the  shelter 
of  some  cafe  in  the  town  ere  the  sun  became  unbearably 
hot,  he  must  be  on  the  move.  So,  with  a  sigh  for  the 

182 


There  was  no  mistaking  the  malice  Page  183 


Hassan  s  Toiver  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

unhappy  Garcia's  fate,  and  a  farewell  glance  at  the 
vaulted  room  which  had  witnessed  that  bygone  tragedy, 
and  perhaps  many  another,  he  began  the  descent. 
Thanks  to  the  precautions  taken  during  the  climb,  he 
found  no  great  difficulty  in  placing  his  toes  in  the  right 
niches.  He  was  already  below  the  level  of  the  window, 
and  was  halting  with  both  feet  wedged  into  a  broader 
crevice  than  usual  while  he  changed  his  hand  hold, 
when  something,  whether  mere  intuition  or  a  slight 
sound,  he  never  afterward  knew,  caused  him  to  look 
straight  up. 

Leaning  over  the  top  of  the  ruin,  and  in  a  direct  line 
above  his  head,  was  a  Moor  of  fantastic  appearance. 
A  blue  cotton  garment  of  vivid  hue  seemed  to  have  lent 
its  dye  to  the  man's  face  and  hair.  Had  he  been 
soused  in  a  bath  of  indigo  he  could  not  have  been 
colored  more  completely.  Though  this  extraordinary 
apparition  was  fully  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet  above 
Warden's  head,  there  was  no  mistaking  the  malice  that 
gleamed  from  the  dark  eyes  gazing  down  on  the  Naza- 
rene.  Under  such  conditions  thought  is  quick,  and 
Warden  was  sure  that  he  had  unwittingly  invaded  the 
sanctuary  of  a  Mohammedan  fanatic.  He  was  minded 
to  whip  out  the  revolver  and  fire  a  shot  that  would  at 
least  scare  this  strange  being  back  into  his  eyrie.  But 
a  British  sense  of  fair  play  stopped  him.  The  blue 
man,  howsoever  wild-looking,  had  not  interfered  with 
or  molested  him  in  any  way.  He  himself  was  the  in- 
truder. The  fact  that  he  was  undeniably  startled  did 
not  justify  the  use  of  a  bullet,  even  for  scaring  purposes. 

183 


The  Message 

The  best  thing  to  do  was  to  reach  the  ground  as  speedily 
as  might  be,  risking  a  jump  when  he  was  low  enough 
to  select  a  particular  stone  on  which  to  alight.  His 
dominant  feeling  at  the  moment  was  one  of  pique  that 
he  had  failed  to  interpret  correctly  the  flight  of  the 
storks.  If  the  zealot  on  top  of  the  tower  meant  mis- 
chief it  would  have  been  far  better  to  have  met  him  in 
one  of  the  upper  rooms  than  to  be  at  his  mercy  while 
clinging  like  a  fly  to  the  face  of  the  wall. 

He  was  within  ten  feet  of  the  pile  of  rough  stones, 
and  was  about  to  drop  on  one  larger  than  its  fellows  — 
in  fact,  he  was  already  in  the  air,  having  sprung  slightly 
outward,  when  a  crushing  blow  on  his  head  and  left 
shoulder  flung  him  violently  on  to  the  very  slab  of 
granite  he  was  aiming  for.  The  shock  was  so  violent 
that  he  felt  no  pain.  Consciousness  was  acute  for  a 
fraction  of  a  second.  He  understood  that  a  heavy 
stone  had  fallen  or  been  dropped  purposely  from  the 
summit  of  the  tower,  and  that  his  change  of  position, 
helped  perhaps  by  the  arched  crown  of  his  pith  hat, 
had  prevented  it  from  striking  directly  on  top  of  his 
head.  But  that  was  all.  He  lay  there,  with  his  back 
propped  awkwardly  against  the  tower,  staring  up  at 
the  sky.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  bright  dome  of 
heaven.  It  seemed  to  be  curiously  near,  and  its  glow- 
ing bounds  were  closing  in  on  him  with  the  speed  of 
light.  Then  the  veil  fell,  and  there  was  merciful  dark- 
ness. 

Consternation  reigned  in  Rabat  next  morning.     The 
Captain  of  the  Water  Witch  began  the  disturbance  over 

184 


Hassan's  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

night,  but  when  daylight  brought  no  tidings  of  the 
missing  Englishman,  the  British  Vice-Consul  talked 
most  unfeelingly  of  a  visit  by  the  West  Coast  Squadron. 
A  worried  and  anxious  Bey,  well  aware  that  Morocco 
had  troubles  in  plenty  without  Rabat  adding  to  the 
store,  protested  that  the  Nazarene  must  have  been 
spirited  away  without  human  agency.  The  Bey  was 
not  listened  to,  so  he  tried  honestly  to  find  out  what 
had  become  of  Warden.  The  only  ascertainable  facts 
were  that  the  Giaour  had  bought  a  chisel,  and  was 
seen  going  to  the  tower  of  Hassan,  the  way  to  which 
was  shown  to  him  by  one  of  his  own  countrymen.  The 
hour  was  early,  soon  after  sunrise.  Since  then  he  had 
seemingly  vanished  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  The 
Bey's  myrmidons  told  how  they  had  searched  the 
Tower,  and  found  that  the  Giaour  had  climbed  into 
its  interior.  He  had  used  the  chisel  and  displaced  a 
stone,  apparently  without  object.  But  the  place  was 
now  quite  empty,  though  some  one  had  ground  corn 
and  millet  recently  in  an  upper  chamber. 

Now,  the  Bey  knew  quite  well  that  the  Blue  Man  of 
El  Hamra  made  the  Tower  his  headquarters  when  he 
visited  Rabat  periodically  to  collect  subscriptions  for 
the  Jehad  that  was  to  drive  every  foreigner  out  of  the 
sacred  land  of  the  Moors.  But  he  kept  silent  on  that 
matter,  for  he  feared  the  Blue  Man  even  more  than 
the  British  Fleet.  Nevertheless,  he  caused  inquiries 
to  be  made,  though  no  one  had  met  the  tinted  prophet 
of  late. 

In  a  country  where  there  are  no  roads,  nor  any  actual 
185 


The  Message 

government  beyond  the  sphere  of  each  chief  town, 
official  zeal  does  not  travel  far.  The  Water  Witch 
sailed  to  Cape  Coast  Castle,  and  reported  the  disap- 
pearance of  Mr.  "Alfred  Williams"  to  an  officer  who 
came  out  to  meet  her  in  the  Governor's  own  surf-boat. 
A  cruiser  hastened  to  Rabat,  and  trained  a  gun  on  the 
principal  palace,  whereupon  the  Bey  went  aboard  in 
person  to  explain  that  none  could  have  made  more 
genuine  effort  than  he  to  find  the  lost  Nazarene,  either 
dead  or  alive.  And  perforce  he  was  believed.  Even 
the  British  Vice-Consul  could  not  charge  him  with 
negligence,  though  not  one  word  had  he  said  to  any 
European  concerning  the  Blue  Man  of  El  Hamra. 

The  cruiser  flitted  back  to  Cape  Coast  Castle,  and 
thence  to  Lagos,  and  there  was  much  wonderment  in 
the  small  circle  that  knew  the  truth.  Yet  no  man  is 
indispensable,  whether  in  West  Africa  or  London,  and 
another  Deputy  Commissioner  was  gazetted  for  the 
special  duty  of  dealing  with  native  unrest  in  the  Benue 
River  district.  The  facts  were  communicated  to 
Whitehall,  and  an  official  from  the  Colonial  Office 
called  on  an  Under  Secretary  in  the  Foreign  Office  to 
explain  why  Captain  Forbes  was  acting  in  the  capacity 
for  which  Captain  Arthur  Warden  seemed  to  be  so 
peculiarly  fitted. 

"It  is  a  queer  business,"  said  the  Under  Secretary. 
"What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

"I  believe  he  was  worried  about  a  woman,"  began 
the  other. 

"What?    In  Rabat?" 

186 


Hassan's  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

"No,  no,  in  London.  Only  this  morning  I  received 
a  letter  from  a  Mrs.  Laing,  who  says  she  is  exceedingly 
anxious  to  ascertain  Captain  Warden's  address.  Now, 
Lady  Hilbury  wrote  two  days  ago  with  the  same  object, 
and,  of  course,  I  returned  a  polite  message  to  the  effect 
that  he  was  engaged  on  Government  service." 

"Mrs.  Laing!"  mused  the  Under  Secretary.  He 
unlocked  a  diary,  and  ran  back  through  its  pages.  "I 
thought  I  remembered  the  name,"  he  continued.  "She 
was  staying  with  the  Baumgartners  at  Lochmerig  be- 
fore they  went  to  Hamburg  in  their  yacht." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds.  His  nails  seemed 
to  need  instant  examination.  Apparently  satisfied  by 
the  scrutiny,  he  went  on: 

"I  rather  liked  that  youngster.  He  struck  me  as 
the  sort  of  man  who  would  go  far.  Have  you  replied 
to  Mrs.  Laing  ?  " 

"No." 

"Then  please  ask  her  to  come  here  next  Tuesday 
about  three  o'clock.  Just  quote  her  letter,  and  allow 
it  to  be  assumed  that  her  inquiry  concerning  Captain 
Warden  may  be  answered.  I  hope  you  don't  mind 
my  stepping  in  in  a  matter  affecting  your  Department  ?" 

The  Colonial  man  laughed. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "I  have  a  whole  regiment 
of  lady  visitors  and  correspondents  whom  I  shall  gladly 
hand  over  to  you." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Rosamund's  furs  and  frills 
graced  the  same  chair  in  the  Foreign  Office  that  Warden 
had  sat  in  when  he  interviewed  the  Under  Secretary. 

187 


The  Message 

She  was  charmingly  anxious  in  manner.  Though  of 
high  rank  in  the  Government,  the  Under  Secretary  was 
young  enough  to  be  impressionable;  he  was  clearly  a 
dandy;  such  men  are  the  easiest  to  subjugate. 

"In  the  first  place,  Mrs.  Laing,"  he  said,  when  she 
explained  her  earnest  wish  to  communicate  at  once 
with  Captain  Warden,  "you  will  not  misunderstand 
me  if  I  ask  what  measure  of  urgency  lies  behind  your 
business  with  him.  We  officials,  you  know,  like  to 
wrap  ourselves  in  a  cloak  of  mystery  with  red  tape 
trimmings.  Yet  I  promise  you  I  shall  match  your 
candor  if  possible." 

"Well  —  perhaps  I  ought  to  begin  by  saying  that  — 
if  not  exactly  engaged  —  Captain  Warden  and  I  are 
very  dear  to  each  other.  We  were  engaged  once,  years 
ago.  But  I  was  young.  I  was  forced  into  marriage 
with  another,  who  is  now  dead." 

Rosamund  made  this  ingenuous  confession  with  the 
necessary  hesitancy  and  downward  eye-glances.  The 
Under  Secretary  was  sympathetic,  and  delighted,  and 
envious  of  Captain  Warden's  good  fortune.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  about  these  things,  because  he  said 
them. 

"That  being  so,  I  know  a  good  deal  of  his  private 
affairs,"  said  Rosamund  demurely.  "I  knew,  for 
instance,  that  he  might  be  summoned  to  West  Africa 
at  any  moment,  but  he  is  such  a  scrupulously  precise 
man  where  duty  is  concerned  that  he  would  actually 
go  away  without  telling  me  anything  about  it  if  ordered 
not  to  take  any  one  into  his  confidence." 

188 


Hassan  s  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

"Something  of  the  kind  has  happened,"  admitted 
the  Under  Secretary. 

"Ah,  then,  he  really  is  in  Africa,  and  if  I  write ?" 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  fear  I  have  misled  you.  He  is 
not  in  Nigeria.  When  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  at 
Rabat." 

"Where  is  that?"  she  cried,  genuinely  surprised. 

"On  the  West  Coast  of  Morocco." 

"But  what  is  he  doing  there?" 

The  Under  Secretary  pressed  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
closely  together. 

"It  is  difficult  to  say,"  he  replied. 

"Surely  you  will  tell  me.  I  have  a  right  to  know," 
she  pleaded.  "I  understand  the  position  on  the  Benue 
River.  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  West  African  Governor. 
I  am  one  of  the  few  women  in  England  who  can  grasp 
the  seriousness  of  any  plot  which  brings  together  the 
men  of  Oku  and  the  trusted  confidant  of  a  meddlesome 
foreign  potentate.  Captain  Warden  was  sent  to  the 
Protectorate  to  earn-  out  your  instructions,  and  that  is 
the  very  reason  I  wish  to  write  to  him.  I  have  news 
of  the  utmost  importance." 

"Connected  with  the  sailing  of  the  Sans  Souci  from 
Hamburg  ?  " 

The  question  was  so  unexpected  that  Rosamund 
looked  at  the  Under  Secretary  with  more  shrewdness 
than  her  fine  eyes  had  displayed  hitherto.  He  was 
making  a  little  circle  of  dots  with  a  pencil  on  a  blotting- 
pad.  Neither  by  voice  nor  manner  did  he  display  any 
surprise  at  her  reference  to  the  men  of  Oku. 

189 


The  Message 

"Yes,  that  is  one  of  the  items,"  she  said. 

"And  the  others?" 

"But  you  are  telling  me  nothing,"  she  pouted. 

"Forgive  me.  I  hate  the  necessity  that  imposes 
restraint.  Now,  Mrs.  Laing,  enlighten  me  on  one 
point,  and  I  shall  acquaint  you  with  such  few  details 
of  Captain  Warden's  recent  movements  as  are  in  my 
possession.  What  interest  had  he  in  Rabat?" 

"I  —  really  —  don't  know." 

The  protest  was  honest.  This  fashionable  lady  was 
speaking  the  truth. 

"Who,  in  your  opinion,  might  know?"  he  persisted. 

Rosamund  was  not  prepared  for  that.  Her  mind 
flew  instantly  to  Evelyn  Dane.  Of  course  she  would 
not  mention  the  girl's  name;  the  mere  thought  of 
Evelyn  cast  a  shadow  over  her  mobile  face. 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  notion,"  she  said. 

The  accompanying  smile  was  forced,  and  the  Under 
Secretary  was  not  in  the  least  deceived. 

"Of  course,  if  you  cannot  tell  me  why  Captain 
Warden  should  go  ashore  at  Rabat  no  one  can,  I  sup- 
pose," and  Rosamund  caught  the  pleasing  hint  of  her 
dominance  in  all  that  affected  the  man  she  loved. 

"You  keep  on  referring  to  this  place  that  I  have 
never  before  heard  of,"  she  cried.  "Is  he  still  at 
Rabat  ?  I  have  ascertained  that  he  is  not  at  Lagos,  or 
in  Southern  Nigeria,  because  I  cabled  for  information." 

"When  last  I  heard  of  Captain  Warden  he  was  at 
Rabat,"  said  the  Under  Secretary.  "He  is  not  there 
now.  Indeed,  I  cannot  tell  you  where  he  is.  If  the 

190 


Hassan's  Tower  —  and  the  Colonial  Office 

earth  had  opened  and  swallowed  him,  he  could  not 
have  disappeared  more  completely." 

Rosamund  gasped,  and  was  somewhat  inclined  to 
storm,  but  not  another  syllable  would  the  Under  Secre- 
tary add  to  his  amazing  statement,  though  he  under- 
took to  communicate  with  her  immediately  when  news 
of  Warden's  whereabouts  reached  him.  In  the  mean- 
time, she  had  to  be  content  with  knowledge  that  was 
no  knowledge,  and  that  only  added  to  her  perplexity. 
On  the  way  to  the  hotel  she  stopped  her  carriage  at  a 
map-seller's  and  bought  a  map  of  Morocco,  and  a 
book  which  revealed  many  things  about  Rabat,  but 
no  one  thing  calculated  to  explain  why  Warden  had 
gone  there. 

In  some  sense,  the  Under  Secretary  was  more  puz- 
zled than  Rosamund.  He  turned  to  his  notes  and 
pored  over  them.  One  paragraph  stood  out  boldly. 

"Captain  Warden,  when  at  Cowes,  met  a  young 
lady,  Miss  Evelyn  Dane,  engaged  as  companion  to 
Baumgartner's  daughter.  He  took  her  in  a  dinghy 
to  the  Sans  Souci,  and  this  slight  chance  led  to  the 
discovery  that  the  yacht  was  in  charge  of  a  shore 
watchman." 

The  Under  Secretary  actually  rumpled  his  hair  with 
those  immaculate  fingers  of  his. 

"I  am  lost  in  a  fog,"  he  confessed  ruefully.  "Mrs. 
Laing  is  not  engaged  to  Warden  —  Lady  Hilbury 
herself  told  me  so  only  this  morning.  Warden  is  the 
last  man  alive  to  discuss  Government  affairs  with  Mrs. 
Laing  or  any  other  woman.  WTiy,  then,  does  she 

191 


The  Message 

pretend  that  he  did  the  very  thing  he  did  not  do  ?  And 
who  is  this  girl,  Evelyn  Dane,  to  whom  he  telegraphed 
from  Ostend  and  London  before  sailing  in  the  Water 
Witch?  Can  slie  shed  light  on  the  dark  places  of 
Rabat?  It  is  worth  trying.  The  Sans  Souci  arrives 
at  Madeira  to-morrow.  I  shall  instruct  some  one  to 
call  on  Evelyn  Dane,  and  find  out  how  far  she  is  mixed 
up  in  the  wretched  muddle.  Confound  Rabat,  and 
the  Benue,  and  the  men  of  Oku,  and  may  Baumgartner 
be  blistered !  I  shall  not  get  a  day's  hunting  before  the 
frost  sets  in." 


192 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  BLUE  MAN  —  AND  A  WHITE 

WHEN  Warden  came  to  his  senses  he  found  himself 
lying  in  unpenetrable  darkness.  A  half-formed  belief 
that  he  was  blind  impelled  him  to  put  his  hands  to 
his  face.  Then  he  awoke  to  realities.  His  wrists 
were  bound  tightly,  movement  was  painful  and  almost 
impossible,  yet  he  seemed  to  be  strapped  to  something 
that  moved.  By  using  his  eyelids  he  soon  succeeded 
in  convincing  himself  that  his  eyes  were  uninjured, 
but  the  cold  sweat  of  fear  induced  by  that  first  horrible 
suspicion  revived  him  more  speedily  than  any  stimu- 
lant. Straining  his  cramped  limbs  to  test  both  his 
bonds  and  his  injuries,  he  was  not  long  in  reaching  a 
fairly  accurate  estimate  of  a  disastrous  plight.  His 
head  and  left  shoulder  were  stiff  and  sore,  and  he 
believed  he  had  been  rendered  unconscious  by  a  blow 
that  caused  a  slight  concussion  of  the  brain.  There 
was  a  bitter  taste  in  his  mouth  which  he  recognized  as, 
poppy-juice,  a  preparation  of  opium  widely  used  in 
Northern  Africa  as  a  soothing  tonic.  This,  in  itself* 
was  somewhat  reassuring.  It  suggested  a  crude  effort 
to  revive  him.  Again,  though  tied  hand  and  foot, 
he  was  lying  comfortably,  and  the  irregular  swaying 
motion  which  puzzled  his  waking  thoughts  was  quickly 

193 


The  Message 

explained  by  the  shuffling  of  sandals  and  the  occasional 
grunting  comments  of  the  men  who  carried  the  palan- 
quin, or  litter,  in  which  he  was  pent. 

But  how  account  for  the  darkness  ?  Turn  and  twist 
as  he  would,  there  was  no  glimmer  of  light,  and  the 
most  closely-woven  fabric  that  ever  left  a  loom  could 
not  altogether  shut  out  the  rays  of  the  tropical  sun 
rising  over  Morocco  when  last  he  saw  its  beams.  Then 
a  gust  of  cool  air  blew  in  on  his  clammy  cheek  through 
a  slit  in  the  litter-cloth,  and  the  astounding  knowledge 
that  it  was  already  night  was  forced  on  him.  Now, 
he  was  almost  certain  that  he  suffered  from  no  injury 
grave  enough  to  entail  fifteen  or  twenty  hours  of  com- 
plete insensibility,  and  the  only  reasonable  conclusion 
was  that  he  had  been  drugged. 

That  was  a  displeasing  explanation  of  the  taste  of 
poppy-juice,  but  he  felt  too  sick  and  weary  to  care  very 
much  what  strange  hazard  had  brought  him  to  his 
present  state.  It  sufficed  that  he  was  a  captive,  that 
the  Water  Witch  would  sail  without  him,  that  he  would 
be  discredited  in  his  service  for  missing  an  appoint- 
ment of  the  utmost  importance.  These  ills  were 
obvious.  No  matter  what  other  misfortunes  the  imme- 
diate future  might  have  in  store,  his  visit  to  Hassan's 
Tower  had  proved  unlucky  in  all  save  its  direct  object, 
the  recovery  of  the  ruby. 

Perhaps  even  that  slight  recompense  for  these  posi- 
tive evils  had  been  taken  from  him.  His  revolver  was 
gone,  and  the  chisel,  as  he  could  determine  by  rolling 
a  little  from  side  to  side.  Probably  his  pockets  were 

194 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

emptied  long  since.  He  tried  to  raise  his  body  ever  so 
slightly,  but  failed,  yet  he  fancied  he  could  feel  the 
pressure  of  the  ring  against  his  ribs.  And  in  fact  it 
was  still  in  his  possession,  for  those  who  had  robbed 
him,  though  they  unfastened  his  waistcoat  to  learn  if 
he  wore  a  money-belt,  had  missed  the  hidden  pocket. 
He  was  deadly  tired.  The  nauseating  drug  with  which 
he  had  been  dosed  was  still  powerful  enough  to  render 
him  almost  incapable  of  reasoned  thought.  After  the 
effects  of  the  first  thrill  of  restored  vitality  had  passed, 
he  listened  idly  to  the  pattering  feet  and  muttered  talk 
of  his  bearers.  Then  he  resigned  himself  to  fate,  and 
fell  asleep. 

When  next  he  awoke  he  was  still  in  the  palanquin. 
But  the  curtains  were  drawn  apart,  it  was  daylight, 
and  a  Moor  was  unfastening  his  bonds.  The  man 
spoke  to  him  in  a  jargon  that  was  incomprehensible. 
Warden  sat  up.  He  felt  cold  and  stiff,  and  a  twinge 
of  pain  in  his  shoulder  drew  from  him  a  stifled  excla- 
mation in  English. 

The  Moor  spoke  again.  This  time  it  was  dimly 
discernible  that  he  was  asking  in  execrable  French  if 
Monsieur  wished  to  eat  and  drink. 

Warden  answered  him  in  the  same  language. 

"Why  am  I  here?"  he  said,  glancing  round  a  rough 
camp  pitched  in  the  shade  of  a  grove  of  tall  trees. 

"You  must  address  the  ever-to-be-honored  Nila 
Moullah.1  I  am  only  a  servant,"  was  the  reply. 

Pronounced  "Neela  Mool-la,"  and  meaning  literally,  "Blue 
Priest." 

195 


The  Message 

"I  am  not  French,"  began  Warden,  "I  am  an  Eng- 
lishman." 

The  man  growled  an  oath  in  Arabic,  and  repeated 
the  request  about  food.  It  was  useless  to  question 
him. 

"What  is  on  the  menu?"  said  Warden,  with  a  wry 
smile. 

He  was  not  to  be  starved,  it  seemed.  Perhaps 
some  explanation  of  his  present  predicament  would 
soon  be  forthcoming.  At  any  rate,  his  wits  would  be 
clearer  after  a  meal.  He  had  eaten  nothing  during 
twenty-four  hours  at  the  lowest  reckoning.  He  saw 
now  that  a  new  day  was  well  advanced.  The  trees 
opposed  a  dense  screen  to  the  sun,  but  that  luminary 
was  high  in  the  heavens,  and  he  was  sure  he  had  not 
dreamed  of  the  night  journey  in  the  palanquin.  A 
dozen  Moors,  all  armed  to  the  teeth,  lolled  on  the  grass 
or  sat  on  the  gnarled  roots  of  trees  in  the  glade  that 
sheltered  the  bivouac.  At  some  little  distance  there 
was  a  palanquin  similar  to  his  own,  save  that  its  trap- 
pings were  more  gaudy,  and  the  bearer-poles  were 
painted  a  bright  blue.  The  curtains  were  closed,  but 
the  color  of  the  paint,  added  to  the  title  of  the  moullah 
to  whom  the  Moor  referred  him  for  information, 
accentuated  a  notion  slowly  taking  shape  in  his  brain. 
He  had  not  forgotten  the  extraordinary  being  who 
gazed  at  him  so  threateningly  from  the  top  of  the  tower. 
It  was  a  fair  assumption  that  the  man  had  dropped  a 
stone  on  him  at  the  very  instant  he  took  the  down- 
ward leap  that  would  have  secured  his  safety.  Was 

196 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

he  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  this  fanatic?  And  for 
what  purpose  was  he  brought  into  the  interior  ? 

That  he  was  far  away  from  the  coast  was  deter- 
mined by  many  signs.  The  keen,  invigorating  moun- 
tain air,  the  hardy  types  of  trees  and  shrubs,  the 
absence  of  the  myriads  of  insects  that  would  have 
made  a  grove  on  the  plains  a  place  of  anything  but 
rest  at  that  hour  —  these  things  were  an  open  book 
to  one  accustomed  to  life  in  the  jungle.  He  reflected 
bitterly  that  if  he  had  practised  the  first  rudiments  of 
the  scout's  art  the  previous  day,  he  would  now,  in  all 
likelihood,  be  on  board  the  steamer.  Then  he  re- 
membered the  ring,  and  pressed  a  hand  to  his  breast 
while  ostensibly  rubbing  his  injured  shoulder.  Yes, 
it  was  there  —  the  one  article  left  him.  Watch, 
money,  revolver,  even  a  handkerchief  and  a  box  of 
matches,  were  stolen,  but  the  ring  remained.  He 
wondered  dully  how  the  Blue  Priest  would  have 
accounted  for  the  piece  of  tattooed  skin  —  with  its 
Arabic-Latin  quotation  from  the  Epistle  of  St.  Paul 
to  the  Hebrews  and  its  Portuguese  announcement  of 
the  secret  hoard  of  Hassan's  Tower  —  if  it  had  hap- 
pened to  be  in  his  pocket.  But  it  reposed  in  a  port- 
manteau in  his  cabin,  together  with  the  canvas  bag 
containing  the  gourd.  When  he  was  missed,  would 
the  skipper  examine  his  baggage  to  discover  some  clue 
to  his  identity?  If  so,  that  weather-beaten  tar's 
remarks  when  he  looked  at  the  face  of  M'Wanga,  one- 
time king  of  Benin,  would  be  interesting. 

The  Moor  came  back  with  a  dish  of  pillau,  chicken 
197 


The  Message 

stewed  with  rice.  It  was  exceedingly  appetizing. 
Some  coarse  bread  and  a  bowl  of  goat's  milk  completed 
a  meal  that  was  almost  sumptuous.  He  ate  heartily, 
and  his  spirits  rose  with  each  mouthful.  The  non- 
descript warriors  who  formed  his  escort  paid  little  heed 
to  him,  even  when  he  rose  and  stretched  his  limbs  in  a 
stroll  round  the  palanquin.  A  man  unacquainted 
with  native  ways  might  have  drawn  a  favorable  augury 
from  their  indifference  —  not  so  Warden,  to  whom 
it  gave  sure  proof  that  his  escape  was  deemed  impos- 
sible. 

At  a  little  distance  was  a  larger  gathering,  mainly 
servants  and  coolies.  Here,  too,  were  tethered  some 
camels  and  hill  ponies.  The  strength  and  equipment 
of  the  party  betokened  a  much  more  serious  purpose 
than  the  capture  of  a  stray  European;  yet  he  seemed 
to  be  the  only  prisoner;  the  others  were  Moors,  Arabs, 
and  negroes,  the  soldiers  and  hangers-on  of  a  fighting 
caravan. 

A  croaking  voice  from  behind  the  curtains  of  the 
gaily  caparisoned  palanquin  suddenly  brought  the 
armed  Moors  to  their  feet.  One  of  them,  who  spoke 
good  French,  bade  Warden  come  nearer,  the  litter-cloth 
was  thrust  aside,  and  the  blue  man  of  the  Hassan 
Tower  was  revealed.  Huddled  up  at  the  back  of  the 
cramped  conveyance,  he  looked  more  like  a  strange 
beast  than  a  man.  If  his  appearance  was  forbidding 
when  seen  in  Warden's  upward  glance  from  the  base 
of  the  tower,  it  was  positively  repulsive  at  this  nearer 
and  more  leisurely  point  of  view.  The  dye  applied 

198 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

to  skin  and  hair  gave  him  a  grotesque,  almost  maniacal 
aspect.  His  elfin  locks  were  matted.  His  face  and 
limbs  had  a  peculiarly  dead  aspect,  since  the  blue  pig- 
ment had  dried  in  dull  scales  that  counterfeited  the 
leathery  surface  of  a  mummy's  body.  The  sunken 
black  eyes,  gleaming  out  of  bloodshot  sockets,  alone 
told  of  life.  He  reminded  Warden  of  some  cannibal 
ju-ju  man  from  the  trackless  swamps  of  Nigeria. 
That  such  a  loathsome  creature  should  command  the 
fearful  respect  of  several  distinguished-looking  Mo- 
hammedans would  be  inconceivable  were  it  not  for 
the  hush  that  fell  on  them  when  they  heard  his  voice, 
and  the  alacrity  with  which  they  obeyed  his  order  to 
produce  the  Giaour. 

Now,  the  singular  fact  that  the  two  men  who  had 
spoken  to  him  used  the  French  language  was  not  lost 
on  Warden.  It  argued  that  they  and  their  companions 
hailed  from  the  Sahara  border  rather  than  the  coast. 
If  that  were  so,  his  capture  was  a  fantastic  mistake. 
They  could  have  no  possible  grievance  against  him. 
A  germ  of  hope  sprang  up  in  his  heart,  but  the  Nila 
Moullah  soon  destroyed  it. 

"Bid  the  Frank  do  homage,"  he  grunted  in  Arabic. 

"Kneel!"  said  the  interpreter. 

"  I  am  rather  stiff  in  the  joints,"  said  Warden,  speak- 
ing composedly,  "but  I  shall  be  glad  to  sit  down  and 
talk  with  the  distinguished  moullah  if  that  is  agreeable 
to  him." 

He  squatted  on  the  ground,  but  two  men  seized  him 
roughly  and  tried  to  force  him  to  his  knees.  He  re- 

199 


sisted  with  a  mad  fury  that  was  more  creditable  to  his 
pluck  than  to  his  intelligence  —  yet  there  are  indig- 
nities that  cannot  be  borne,  and  this  was  one.  Though 
handicapped  by  a  crippled  shoulder  and  the  enervat- 
ing effect  of  the  drug,  though  he  was  grappled  with 
before  he  could  rise  —  and  the  Moors  were  men  of 
bone  and  sinew  —  he  fought  so  fiercely  that  both  of  his 
assailants  were  prostrate  at  the  same  time  as  himself. 
A  coward's  blow  ended  the  unequal  tussle.  A  heavy 
whip  cut  him  ferociously  across  the  eyes,  and  half- 
blinded  him,  and  he  was  flung  violently  face  down- 
ward in  front  of  the  Blue  Man,  who  muttered: 

"Let  the  Kaffir  dog  lie  there  till  he  learns  obedi- 
ence." 

Thinking  he  was  subdued,  the  Moors  relaxed  their 
grip.  Then  Warden  sprang  to  his  feet,  If  death  were 
at  hand,  in  dying  he  would  at  least  rid  tortured  hu- 
manity of  an  oppressor.  But  the  Nila  Moullah  seemed 
to  guess  his  thought,  and  shrieked  to  his  guards  that 
they  should  hold  fast  the  Nazarene.  They  pinioned 
his  arms  again,  and  the  French-speaking  Moor  asked 
him  why  he  had  dared  to  disturb  a  place  made  holy 
by  the  presence  of  the  moullah. 

Nearly  incoherent  with  pain  and  anger,  Warden 
managed  to  answer  that  he  had  done  harm  to  none, 
that  he  was  not  even  a  resident  in  Rabat,  having 
landed  at  the  port  little  more  than  an  hour  before  he 
visited  the  Tower. 

"Ah,  he  is  not  one  of  the  accursed  brood  at  Rabat? 
So  much  the  better!  They  will  fall  like  ripe  pears  at 

200 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

the  time  of  plucking,"  snarled  the  occupant  of  the 
litter. 

Since  the  words  were  Arabic,  Warden  understood, 
but  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  bade  him  conceal 
the  fact.  Nevertheless,  he  forced  his  lips  to  utter  a 
dignified  protest. 

"I  am  an  Englishman,"  he  said,  "and  my  disap- 
appearance  will  be  reported.  Inquiry  will  be  made 
—  it  is  known  that  I  went  to  the  Hassan  Tower  — 
and  your  large  caravan  cannot  travel  without  exciting 
comment.  You  will  certainly  be  pursued  and  attacked, 
whether  I  am  living  or  dead.  Yet  I  am  not  vindictive. 
Set  me  free,  bring  me  back  to  Rabat  in  time  to  join 
my  ship,  and  I  shall  lodge  no  complaint  against  you, 
nor  claim  my  money  and  other  belongings." 

"What  sayeth  the  unbeliever?"  demanded  the 
moullah. 

He  was  told,  with  fair  accuracy,  and  seemed  to  find 
humor  in  Warden's  words. 

"Slaves  do  not  parley  with  their  masters,"  he  an- 
nounced, grinning  vindictively  at  his  captive.  "Tie 
him  in  the  litter.  If  he  speaks,  gag  him.  To-morrow 
he  can  carry  a  load  with  the  rest." 

It  needed  all  of  Warden's  philosophy  to  keep  him 
from  going  mad  during  that  dreadful  journey  across 
Morocco.  The  Nila  Moullah's  orders  were  literally 
obeyed.  After  the  second  day's  march,  when  sixty 
miles  of  hilly  country  intervened  between  Rabat  and 
the  caravan,  the  Englishman  was  deprived  of  his 
palanquin  and  became  a  beast  of  burden.  Still,  he 

201 


The  Message 

lived,  and  was  fed,  and  he  prayed  that  he  might  retain 
his  reason.  The  belief  that  he  knew  no  Arabic  en- 
abled him  to  gather  some  scraps  of  information.  The 
Blue  Priest  of  El  Hamra  was  preaching  a  new  jehad, 
but,  unlike  others  of  his  kidney,  he  was  a  born  or- 
ganizer. Instead  of  stirring  up  a  minor  rebellion 
which  would  be  snuffed  out  either  by  the  Sultan  of 
Morocco  or  by  one  of  the  European  powers,  he  was 
gradually  making  himself  known  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  In  his  own  strong- 
hold of  Lektawa,  on  the  very  confines  of  the  Great 
Desert,  he  was  building  up  an  army  of  fanatics. 
Meanwhile,  his  repute  was  such  that  he  levied  heavy 
contributions  in  money  and  kind  on  the  more  fertile 
seaboard  provinces.  When  the  time  was  propitious 
he  would  descend  on  Morocco,  enslave  or  kill  every 
Christian,  loot  every  port,  and  establish  himself  an- 
other Mahomet.  Till  then,  he  was  content  to  pose 
as  a  saint. 

Such  a  programme  is  nothing  new  in  the  Mussul- 
man world.  Since  the  inspired  camel-driver  of  Mecca 
was  rapt  half-way  to  Paradise  in  his  coffin,  nearly 
five  hundred  mahdis  have  each  and  all  claimed  to  be 
the  one,  true,  and  much-predicted  "holy  man"  des- 
tined to  lead  Islam  to  complete  victory  over  Christen- 
dom. 

These  impostors  are  infinitely  worse  than  a  pesti- 
lence. They  resemble  it  in  their  unexpected  outbursts 
and  phenomenal  areas  of  activity,  but  they  scourge 
Moslemin  mankind  with  a  virulence  unknown  to 

202 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

cholera  or  small-pox.  It  was  Warden's  grievous  mis- 
fortune that  he  had  blundered  into  Hassan's  Tower 
while  the  Blue  Man  of  El  Hamra  was  meditating  an 
attack  on  the  purse  of  the  faithful  of  Rabat,  and  the 
chance  thus  offered  of  securing  a  Christian  captive  to 
grace  the  prophet's  return  to  Lektawa  was  too  tempt- 
ing to  be  neglected. 

Fate  oft  chooses  her  victims  with  savage  reckless- 
ness, but  Warden  felt,  as  he  crossed  the  Atlas  Moun- 
tains by  way  of  the  Beni  Musa  pass,  that  some 
influence  more  far-seeing  than  fate  was  leading  him 
along  the  path  trodden  by  Domenico  Garcia  after  the 
ruby  was  hidden  in  the  tower.  He  had  no  manner  of 
doubt  that  the  Portuguese  artist  and  pirate  was  taken 
into  the  heart  of  Africa  by  this  very  route.  The  be- 
lief sustained  him  in  those  too  frequent  moments  when 
sheer  weariness  of  spirit  whispered  of  self-destruction. 
He  refused  to  end  his  sufferings  in  that  way.  If  rabid 
fanaticism  could  sway  a  whole  Mohammedan  race,  he, 
at  least,  placed  his  trust  in  a  higher  and  holier  creed. 
Not  till  grim  death  bade  him  lay  down  his  arms  would 
he  abandon  the  struggle.  Never  a  day  passed  that  he 
did  not  plan  a  means  of  escape,  but  every  scheme 
promised  failure,  and  he  did  not  mean  to  fail,  for 
failure  meant  death.  So  he  trudged  on  manfully,  his 
only  friend  a  stalwart  negro  who  spoke  the  Hausa 
language,  and  ever  the  road  led  to  the  southeast  — 
to  the  desert  —  to  the  great  unknown  land. 

His  boots  gave  out;  his  clothes  were  torn  to  rags;  he 
was  compelled  to  adopt  the  garments  and  many  of  the 

£03 


habits  of  those  with  whom  his  lot  was  cast.  But  he 
kept  the  ruby  safe,  for  none  thought  of  searching  him 
now,  and  he  was  given  a  certain  measure  of  liberty 
once  the  Atlas  range  was  passed.  Towns  and  villages 
became  more  scattered.  The  country  was  so  wild  that 
any  attempt  to  travel  by  other  road  than  the  long- 
established  caravan  track  would  mean  easy  re-cap- 
ture. To  go  back  was  equally  impossible.  Every 
community  in  the  Nila  Moullah's  own  territory  was 
gratified  by  the  spectacle  of  a  Giaour  among  the 
Mahdi's  train.  The  people  would  crowd  round  him, 
and  jeer  at  him,  for  no  better  cause  than  that  he  was 
one  of  the  hated  white  race.  Many  of  them  had  never 
before  seen  a  white  man,  but  that  did  not  count  — 
they  cursed  him  roundly  for  the  sake  of  the  legends 
they  had  heard  of  the  arrogance  with  which  the 
Prophet's  followers  were  treated  by  Nazarenes  in  their 
own  lands. 

Warden  bore  this  contumely  with  infinite  patience. 
He  knew  that  the  desert  folk  were  repaying  some  of 
the  wrongs  their  ancestors  had  endured  from  genera- 
tions of  Portuguese  and  Spanish  freebooters.  But  at 
least  he  laid  to  heart  the  knowledge  that  he  could  never 
return  by  the  way  he  had  come  unless  he  were  still  a 
slave.  He  would  be  recognized  instantly,  and  clubbed 
to  death  like  a  mad  dog. 

Despite  his  hardships,  he  was  soon  restored  to  per- 
fect health.  The  winter  season,  such  as  it  is  in  the 
Sahara,  was  approaching.  The  air  was  invigorating, 
and  the  rough  food,  mainly  grains  and  fruit,  was  whole- 

204 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

some  and  nutritious.  Yet,  when  Lektawa  was  reached, 
his  case  looked  desperate  indeed.  Day  followed  day, 
and  week  followed  week,  without  any  prospect  of 
relief,  and  he  became  more  and  more  a  mere  appanage 
of  the  Nila  Moullah's  household.  It  was  just  when 
hope  itself  was  yielding  to  numb  despair  that  the 
sought-for  opportunity  presented  itself.  It  came  like 
a  meteor  falling  from  the  midnight  sky,  and  Warden, 
ever  on  the  watch,  was  ready  to  avail  himself  of  the 
light  it  shed  on  his  dark  calvary. 

Some  Mohammedan  festival  had  led  to  a  good  deal 
of  revelry  and  gormandizing  when  Warden,  at  the  close 
of  a  tiring  day,  found  his  negro  friend  sitting  at  the 
door  of  his  hut  in  an  attitude  of  deep  dejection. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked. 

The  man,  moved  by  the  familiar  accents  of  his  native 
tongue,  gave  way  to  tears.  His  plaint  was  common 
enough  in  communities  ruled  by  a  truculent  savage 
of  the  moullah's  type.  His  daughter,  a  finely-built 
girl  of  fifteen,  had  been  spoken  of  by  some  parasite, 
and  she  was  summoned  forthwith  to  the  despot's 
seraglio.  Now,  the  negro,  who  belonged  to  one  of 
the  numerous  Hausa  tribes,  while  ready  enough  to 
enlist  under  the  prophet's  banner,  was  far  from  grati- 
fied by  the  prospect  of  becoming  his  holiness'  father- 
in-law.  A  doubtful  privilege  at  the  best,  it  was  shared 
by  many,  and  a  goodly  number  had  been  beheaded  to 
prevent  further  unpleasantness  when  the  lady  failed 
to  recognize  the  moullah's  attractiveness  as  a  husband. 
Moreover,  the  Hausa  girl  herself  rebelled  against  her 

205 


The  Message 

lot,  and  was  nearly  wild  with  terror  at  the  thought  of 
it.  Warden  could  hear  her  sobbing  inside  the  hut, 
while  her  father  muttered  his  anger  to  one  whom  he 
knew  instinctively  he  might  trust. 

Somehow,  Warden  felt  that  his  chance  had  come. 
He  dared  all  in  the  next  instant. 

"Were  in  I  your  place,"  he  said,  "that  dog  should 
never  claim  my  daughter.  I  would  kill  him  first." 

The  Hausa  shivered  with  anxiety.  What  would  be 
his  fate  if  others  were  aware  that  he  even  listened  to 
those  bold  words  without  denouncing  the  man  who 
uttered  them. 

"You  know  him  not,  Seyyid,"  he  said,  and  the  fact 
that  he  used  the  word  for  "master"  to  a  slave  showed 
how  deeply  he  was  stirred.  "He  is  invulnerable  and 
far-seeing.  He  reads  men's  thoughts;  he  can  kill  with 
a  look.  Even  you,  a  Nazarene,  could  not  resist  him." 

"That  is  what  he  tells  the  fools  who  choose  to  be- 
lieve him.  I  was  made  a  prisoner  because  a  stone 
struck  me  insensible.  If  he  is  so  powerful,  why  did  he 
hide  me  in  a  litter  until  he  was  far  from  Rabat  ?  Now 
attend  to  me,  Beni  Kalli.  I  shall  save  you  and  your 
daughter  if  you  do  exactly  as  I  bid  you." 

The  man  raised  his  eyes.  Here  was  a  new  tone  in 
the  Christian  who  had  endured  insult  and  blows  with 
meekness,  except  on  that  solitary  occasion  when  the 
Blue  Priest  ordered  him  to  kneel  before  him. 

"Speak,  Seyyid.  At  least  I  shall  not  betray  you," 
he  muttered. 

"You  must  get  me  some  Arab  clothing  which  I  can 
206 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

put  on  in  your  hut  when  it  is  dark.  Then  I  shall  take 
your  daughter  to  the  moullah's  house.  At  that  hour 
he  will  be  alone  in  an  inner  room,  and  the  fact  that  I 
bring  the  girl  will  procure  me  admission 

"But  you  will  be  discovered  at  once.  How  should 
a  man  be  an  Arab  who  speaks  no  Arabic  ? " 

"Do  I  not?"  laughed  Warden,  going  off  instantly 
into  the  sonorous  language  of  the  desert.  "I  can 
accomplish  that  and  more,  Beni  Kalli,  if  you  follow 
my  plan." 

The  Hausa  sprang  to  his  feet  in  amazement. 

"Master!"  he  cried,  "you  know  Arabic  better  than 
I,  who  have  lived  here  many  years." 

He  thought  the  Nazarene  was  a  wizard.  Thence- 
forth he  was  ready  to  fall  in  with  any  proposal  he 
made. 

Warden's  scheme  was  feasible.  Beni  Kalli,  afraid 
to  be  skeptical,  yet  only  half  convinced  at  first,  quickly 
saw  that  its  very  daring  commended  it.  Moreover, 
time  pressed.  He  must  either  sacrifice  his  daughter 
or  adopt  some  such  heroic  alternative  as  that  suggested 
by  one  whom  he  already  recognized  as  a  leader  of  men. 
Immediate  decision  was  called  for.  To  defy  the  Nila 
Moullah's  will  meant  simply  that  the  malcontent 
would  be  beheaded  forthwith. 

"I  am  between  the  lion  and  his  prey,"  said  Beni 
Kalli  valiantly.  "So  I  face  the  lion.  Have  it  as  you 
will,  Seyyid.  I  am  at  your  command." 

His  proverb  was  well  chosen.  Never  did  people  in 
dire  straits  adopt  bolder  strategy  than  that  which 

207 


Warden  had  in  mind.  He  had  often  weighed  it  and 
found  it  practicable,  but  hitherto  it  had  proved  im- 
possible owing  to  the  secrecy  with  which  the  prophet 
surrounded  his  daily  life.  When  traveling,  the  Blue 
Man  usually  remained  in  his  litter.  At  Lektawa  he 
gave  audience  unseen.  None  could  gain  admission 
to  his  compound  without  stating  their  business  and 
revealing  their  identity;  he  lived  alone  and  hidden, 
like  a  spider  in  the  dark  recesses  of  his  murderous 
web.  Now  that  safeguard,  previously  unsurmount- 
able,  vanished  by  reason  of  the  girl's  presence.  For 
the  rest,  Warden  relied  not  only  on  his  own  audacity, 
but  on  the  assured  cowardliness  of  a  crafty  tyrant. 

There  is  an  hour  in  the  desert  —  the  hour  following 
sunset  —  when  night  wraps  the  earth  in  blackness  as 
in  a  pall.  It  is  due  to  the  rapid  fall  in  temperature 
and  the  resultant  condensation  of  surface  moisture 
taken  up  by  the  air.  But  it  soon  passes.  If  there  is  a 
moon,  the  landscape  becomes  a  radiant  etching  in 
black  and  silver;  even  when  the  moon  is  absent,  the 
light  of  the  stars  makes  traveling  safe.  Therefore, 
the  time  at  Warden's  disposal  was  limited.  So  many 
shrewd  eyes  watched  the  Nila  Moullah's  dwelling  that 
if  success  were  to  attend  the  coup  it  must  be  carried 
out  during  the  forty  minutes  of  darkness. 

And  there  was  much  to  be  done  in  that  brief  period. 
As  soon  as  the  rapidly  advancing  gloom  permitted, 
Warden  and  the  girl  crossed  the  open  space  in  the 
center  of  which  stood  the  moullah's  abode.  The 
Englishman  was  so  bronzed  by  exposure  to  the  ele- 

208 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

ments  that  the  hood  of  a  burnous  was  scarcely  needed 
to  conceal  his  face.  The  young  negress,  a  comely 
statue  of  ebony  draped  in  white  cotton,  was  so  terror- 
stricken  that  she  offered  the  most  serious  obstacle  to 
Warden's  project.  But  that  could  not  be  helped.  He 
depended  on  her  to  draw  those  ferret  eyes  off  himself 
for  the  one  precious  moment  he  needed.  After  that, 
he  trusted  utterly  to  his  own  resources. 

There  was  no  trouble  at  the  entrance  to  the  com- 
pound. The  guards  were  Moors  recruited  from  the 
seaboard  provinces,  well-paid  hirelings  whom  the  Blue 
Man  could  safely  order  to  kill  any  obnoxious  members 
of  his  own  tribe.  Were  they  Arabs,  they  might  have 
suspected  Warden's  accent,  but  the  patois  they  used 
was  almost  unintelligible  among  the  desert  folk.  So 
Warden  spoke  with  a  harsh  distinctness. 

"Go,  one  of  you,"  he  said,  "and  tell  the  glorious 
successor  of  the  Prophet  that  the  daughter  of  Beni 
Kalli  awaits  his  pleasure." 

The  chief  man  among  the  guards  came  forward 
and  peered  at  them.  His  glance  fell  on  the  shrinking 
form  by  the  side  of  this  stalwart  Bedawi. 

"'Tis  well,"  he  said.  "Even  now  the  Holy  One 
asked  why  she  tarried.  Who  art  thou,  brother?" 

"What,  then,  must  the  renowned  son  of  Mahmoud 
suffer  further  delay  ?"  cried  Warden,  even  more  loudly. 

He  risked  a  good  deal,  because  some  true  Arab 
might  be  within  earshot,  and  there  are  gutturals  in 
the  nomadic  language  of  Northern  Africa  that  no 
European  throat  can  reproduce. 

209 


But  his  fearlessness  was  justified.  A  snarling  voice 
reached  them  where  they  stood. 

"Bring  the  girl  hither,"  it  growled,  and  the  two  were 
allowed  to  pass  instantly. 

Warden's  heart  throbbed  a  little  faster  as  he  half 
dragged  the  cowering  negress  across  the  courtyard. 
She  knew  what  was  going  to  happen,  and  had  been 
coached  as  to  her  behavior,  but  she  was  only  a  child,  and 
her  fear  was  great  for  her  father  and  herself.  She  could 
not  believe  that  this  gaunt  Christian,  the  man  whom 
she  had  seen  working  daily  among  the  Nila  Moullah's 
slaves,  could  really  accomplish  the  task  he  had  under- 
taken. So  she  whimpered  with  fright,  and  would 
have  run  back  shrieking  if  Warden  had  not  caught  her 
arm  and  whispered  a  few  words  of  encouragement. 

The  prophet's  habit  of  concealing  himself  as  much 
as  possible  from  his  adherents  was  now  more  helpful 
than  a  hundred  armed  men.  He  was  supposed  to 
pass  day  and  night  in  meditation.  None  had  ever 
seen  him  eat  or  sleep.  To  carry  out  this  pose  he 
seldom  appeared  from  behind  the  thick  mats  which 
veiled  the  front  of  the  room  he  occupied. 

A  lamp  was  burning  within.  When  Warden  lifted 
a  corner  of  one  of  the  mats,  he  saw  a  grotesque  and 
ghoulish-looking  figure  seated  cross-legged  on  a  pray- 
ing-carpet. Two  red-rimmed,  glittering  black  eyes 
gazed  fixedly  at  him,  and  a  hand  sought  under  a  cushion 
for  a  weapon,  since  none  dared  to  pass  that  screen 
without  direct  instructions.  Warden  turned  quickly, 
and  pushed  the  girl  forward. 

210 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

"Beni  Kalli  was  slow  in  fulfilling  your  wishes,  O 
worthy  of  honor,"  he  exclaimed,  bowing  low  yet 
advancing  the  while,  and  never  relaxing  his  grip  on 
the  unhappy  negress.  Her  manifest  reluctance  ex- 
plained his  action.  The  Blue  Man  appreciated  the 
rough  ways  of  an  Arab. 

"There  are  means  to  make  him  speedy,"  he  chuckled, 
rising. 

That  was  what  Warden  wanted.  In  raising  him- 
self, the  moullah  was  momentarily  off  his  guard.  In 
the  next  instant  he  was  lying  with  his  face  on  the  floor; 
a  strong  hand  was  across  his  mouth  pulling  his  head 
back  until  his  neck  was  almost  dislocated,  while  the 
blade  of  a  sharp  knife  rested  most  suggestively  across 
his  throat. 

"Turn  the  lamp  low,"  said  Warden  to  the  girl. 
His  voice  was  quiet  and  reassuring,  but  she  was  so 
completely  unnerved  that  she  nearly  put  out  the  light, 
which  would  have  been  awkward.  Happily,  she 
avoided  that  blunder. 

"Now  listen,  you  dog!"  muttered  Warden,  slightly 
relieving  the  tension  on  the  Blue  Man's  spinal  column. 
"Do  as  I  bid,  and  I  shall  spare  your  life.  Say  but  a 
word,  utter  the  least  cry,  save  as  I  direct,  and  your 
head  will  leave  your  miserable  body.  Do  you  under- 
stand, sug?" 

He  used  the  concluding  epithet  purposely.  It  is 
more  opprobrious  in  Arabic  than  its  English  equiva- 
lent "cur."  It  showed  how  fully  he  was  the  victor  in 
this  unexpected  strife,  and  he  emphasized  the  warning 

211 


The  Message 

with  a  more  decided  pressure  of  the  sharp  blade  in 
the  region  of  the  jugular  vein.  The  moullah  could  not 
have  been  more  at  his  mercy  were  he  manacled.  He 
was  flat  on  the  ground,  sprawling  with  arms  and  legs 
like  some  ugly  frog,  and  Warden's  right  knee  was 
jammed  in  the  small  of  his  back.  There  was  naught 
to  be  done  but  yield,  and,  when  permitted  to  speak,  he 
murmured  humbly  that  he  would  obey. 

"Say  'Seyyid,'  you  swine!"  said  the  Englishman. 

"Seyyid!"   gurgled   the   other. 

"Pay  heed,  then,"  continued  Warden,  with  a  grim 
earnestness  that  left  no  doubt  in  his  hearer's  mind  that 
he  would  not  hesitate  to  slit  a  throat  if  need  be.  "The 
least  alteration  of  my  commands  shall  forfeit  thy  life. 
Call  the  leader  of  the  guard,  and  tell  him  to  summon 
hither  Beni  Kalli,  who  is  to  be  admitted  alone  and 
without  question.  Tell  him  also  to  bring  into  the 
compound  the  three  best  camels  you  possess,  with  store 
of  food  and  water  for  a  journey.  Beni  Kalli  is  to  come 
at  once,  and  the  camels  are  to  be  ready  within  ten 
minutes.  Shout  now  —  he  will  hear  thee." 

Thus  far,  the  conditions  did  not  sound  onerous, 
and  the  Blue  Man  complied  with  them  to  the  fraction 
of  a  syllable.  An  anxious,  heart-searching  five  minutes 
followed.  Warden  did  not  fail  to  impress  on  the 
quaking  wretch  in  his  grasp  that  he  was  receiving  more 
clemency  than  he  deserved,  and  warned  him  sternly 
against  ever  again  treating  a  European  with  contumely. 
He  could  feel  the  thrill  of  mortal  terror  that  shook  the 
moullah  when  he  learnt  the  identity  of  his  assailant. 

212 


The  Blue  Man  —  and  a  White 

It  was  good  that  the  tyrant  should  know  what  fear 
was,  yet  the  time  passed  with  leaden  feet  until  Beni 
Kalli,  more  than  doubting  that  the  Seyyid's  scheme 
had  failed,  lifted  a  mat  and  thrust  an  awestricken 
countenance  within.  The  girl  uttered  a  cry  of  relief 
at  the  sight  of  her  father,  but  Warden  silenced  her 
with  a  word. 

He  nodded  to  the  Hausa,  who  immediately  began  to 
tie  the  moullah's  legs  and  arms  with  leather  thongs, 
using  the  wholly  baffling  slave-knot,  which  must  be 
cut  ere  its  victim  can  be  freed.  Soon  the  whining  plaint 
of  camels  roused  from  their  accustomed  sleeping-place 
was  audible.  The  animals  were  led  into  the  court- 
yard, and  their  attendants  received  the  dreaded  moul- 
lah's exceedingly  curt  order  that  they  were  to  be 
handed  over  to  Beni  Kalli,  his  daughter,  and  the 
Arab,  Abdul  ben  Izzuf,  for  a  journey  which  they  were 
taking  on  his  business. 

And  that  was  the  last  word  the  Blue  Man  of  El 
Hamra  ever  uttered.  Warden,  it  is  true,  kept  his 
promise,  and  left  him  gagged  and  bound,  unable  to 
move  or  utter  a  cry,  but  otherwise  uninjured.  He  lay 
there  all  night  and  all  the  following  day,  and  his  views 
concerning  Nazarenes  must  have  been  most  unedifying. 
After  sunset  it  occurred  to  some  one  that  even  a  prophet 
might  fall  ill.  One  who  was  in  some  sense  his  con- 
fidant and  disciple  volunteered  to  look  behind  the 
screen,  when  he  could  obtain  no  answer  to  his  repeated 
requests  for  an  audience.  He  was  greatly  shocked  at 
seeing  his  revered  teacher's  plight.  In  fact,  he  thought 

213 


the  moullah  was  dead.  Most  amazing  thing  of  all, 
the  famous  blue  robe  had  vanished.  Its  disappearance 
suggested  that  the  time  was  ripe  for  the  advent  of  a 
new  prophet,  and  he  proclaimed  loudly  that  the  Nila 
Moullah  had  been  slain  in  a  combat  with  the  devil. 
To  make  sure,  being  of  decisive  habit,  he  planted  a 
dagger  firmly  between  the  Blue  Man's  shoulder-blades. 
Although  the  corpse  was  warm  when  the  guards  came 
running  at  his  outcry,  none  dared  touch  the  body  of 
one  who  had  wrestled  with  Satan.  It  was  evident  at 
least  that  the  disciple  could  not  have  trussed  his  spiritual 
guide  so  thoroughly  in  a  few  seconds,  and  the  theory 
of  diabolic  agency  was  confirmed  thereby. 

Affairs  became  lively  in  Lektawa  for  a  week  or  two. 
Several  would-be  prophets  died  suddenly  before  order 
was  restored  and  a  new  regime  was  firmly  established. 
It  was  no  man's  affair  to  discover  what  had  become  of 
the  Nazarene  slave  or  Beni  Kalli  and  his  daughter, 
so  no  effort  was  put  forth  toward  that  end.  Had  the 
fugitives  known  the  outcome  of  their  bold  deed  they 
might  have  spared  themselves  much  anxiety.  But  that 
could  not  be.  They  fled  along  the  caravan  route  that 
crosses  the  Western  Sahara,  and  looked  ever  for  the 
dust  of  a  pursuing  kafila.  The  Blue  Man  of  El  Hamra 
was  in  their  thoughts,  waking  or  dreaming,  and  many 
a  league  separated  them  from  Lektawa  ere  their  fear 
abated  and  they  gave  heed  to  the  troubles  that  lay  in 
front  rather  than  to  the  vengeance  that  might  be  rush- 
ing on  them  from  the  rear. 


214 


CHAPTER  XII 

EVELYN   HAS   UNEXPECTED   VISITORS 

ON  a  moonlit  night  in  January,  Evelyn  Dane  was 
sitting  in  the  veranda  of  the  big  English-looking  hotel 
which  has  brought  more  than  a  hint  of  Brighton  to  the 
sea  front  of  Las  Palmas,  Gran  Canaria.  A  dance  was 
in  progress  within,  and  the  jingle  of  a  polka  mixed 
curiously  with  the  continuous  roar  of  a  heavy  surf. 
But  Evelyn  was  in  no  mood  for  dancing.  While  she 
was  dressing  for  dinner  that  evening  the  boom  of  a 
gun  from  the  harbor  announced  the  arrival  of  a  foreign 
warship.  Soon  afterward  she  learned  the  ship's  name, 
and  from  that  moment  she  was  on  the  tip-toe  of  expec- 
tation, for  the  captain  of  H.  M.  second-class  cruiser 
Valiant  supplied  the  one  remaining  link  between  her 
present  embittered  life  and  the  rose-colored  romance 
of  a  day  at  Plymouth. 

Two  months  earlier,  Captain  Mortimer  came  to  her 
in  Funchal,  Madeira,  with  a  message  that  thrilled  her 
with  hope.  The  Foreign  Office  had  requested  him, 
he  said,  to  forward  any  information  she  could  give 
which  might  help  to  explain  why  Captain  Warden 
should  vanish  so  mysteriously  at  Rabat. 

The  inquiry  was  a  private  one.  She  must  mention 
215 


The  Message 

it  to  none,  but  it  was  deemed  so  important  by  the 
authorities  in  Whitehall  that  the  Valiant  was  sent 
specially  to  Madeira  to  make  it.  There  was  not  much 
that  she  could  tell  him.  Her  sole  knowledge  of  Rabat 
was  gleaned  from  Domenico  Garcia's  message.  She 
remembered  the  text  with  sufficient  accuracy  —  but 
what  a  queer  jumble  of  fact  and  fable  it  sounded! 
Even  she  herself,  though  she  had  actually  seen  the 
carved  gourd  bobbing  about  in  the  Solent,  fancied 
now  that  the  tattooed  parchment  supplied  a  far-fetched 
excuse  for  Warden's  disappearance. 

Nevertheless,  the  sailor's  words  had  driven  some  of 
the  hardness  out  of  her  heart.  She  was  beginning  to 
think  that  Mrs.  Laing's  story  was  true  —  that  Warden 
was  really  her  rival's  promised  husband  —  that  he  had 
not  dared  even  to  write  again  when  he  knew  that 
Rosamund  was  at  Lockmerig.  But  when  this  courtly 
officer  assured  her  that  Captain  Warden  had  un- 
doubtedly sailed  for  West  Africa  two  days  after  the 
Sans  Souci  quitted  the  lock,  she  realized  that,  in  some 
respects,  her  doubts  were  unwarranted.  It  was  amaz- 
ing that  her  lover  had  not  announced  his  departure, 
but  the  ways  of  Governments  are  strange,  and  his  fall 
from  grace  was  by  no  means  so  great  as  she  had  been 
forced  to  believe.  And  then  her  tiny  bit  of  blue  sky 
was  darkened  by  a  new  cloud.  Although  the  captain 
of  the  Valiant,  out  of  sheer  kindliness,  concealed  the 
sinister  outcome  of  Warden's  visit  to  the  Morocco 
town,  his  very  reticence  induced  anxiety.  He  was 
greatly  interested  in  Garcia's  allusion  to  Hassan's 

216 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

Tower,  listened  carefully  to  Evelyn's  story  of  the 
gourd,  and,  before  departing,  asked  her  to  let  him 
know  at  Lagos  if  she  left  Madeira.  That  was  all. 
She  had  been  eight  weeks  in  Las  Palmas  without  ever 
a  word  of  her  lover.  The  gloom  in  her  soul  deepened 
ever,  until  the  clamor  of  the  cruiser's  salute  awoke  the 
echoes. 

Hence,  Evelyn  was  one  of  the  few  people  in  the 
capital  city  of  the  Canary  Islands  who  could  supply  a 
reason  for  the  presence  of  the  Valiant  other  than  the 
need  of  fresh  supplies  of  a  vessel  on  the  West  African 
station.  Nor  was  she  wrong  in  the  assumption  that 
Captain  Mortimer  might  call  on  her  without  delay. 
She  had  been  seated  not  many  minutes  in  the  veranda, 
and  had  successfully  held  at  bay  only  two  of  the  half- 
dozen  Spanish  officers  who  wished  to  dance  with  her, 
when  the  sailor  himself  approached,  and  lifted  his  cap 
with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"You  remember  me,  Miss  Dane?"  he  began. 

"Yes.  I  knew  the  Valiant  had  arrived,  and  I  felt 
so  sure  you  would  look  me  up  that  I  have  refused  all 
invitations  to  the  ballroom." 

An  expression  of  surprise  flitted  across  the  man's 
frank  face.  Evidently,  he  had  placed  Evelyn  in  an- 
other and  higher  category  than  the  flippant  young 
ladies  who  dominate  the  winter  society  of  Madeira 
and  Gran  Canaria.  To  his  thinking,  when  last  he 
interviewed  her,  Warden,  the  man  to  whom  she  was 
engaged,  was  undoubtedly  dead.  By  this  time,  even 
a  heedless  girl  might  have  suspected  the  truth,  and  he 

217 


The  Message 

was  not  prepared  to  find  Warden's  sweetheart  so 
obviously  indifferent  to  his  fate  as  to  plunge  into  all 
the  gaiety  of  the  Las  Palmas  season. 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  agony  of  suspense,  the 
poison  of  doubt,  the  self-humiliation  and  passionate 
despair  of  those  dreary  weeks,  nor  did  he  appreciate 
her  position  in  the  Baumgartner  household.  But  he 
was  hurt,  and  his  manner  proved  it.  Men  who  are 
called  on  at  times  to  face  death  in  their  country's 
service  like  to  believe  that  their  women-folk  are  eager 
for  news  of  them.  So  Mortimer  was  disappointed  in 
Evelyn. 

"I  fear  I  shall  be  regarded  as  an  intruder  by  some 
of  the  young  gentlemen  I  see  pirouetting  inside,"  he 
said.  "But  I  shall  not  detain  you  long.  I  promised 
to  let  you  know  if  any  further  news  was  forthcoming 
as  to  Captain  Warden's  whereabouts.  When  we  met 
at  Funchal  I  feared  the  worst.  Now  I  have  good 
reason  to  believe  he  is  alive." 

She  leaped  to  her  feet.  Her  cheeks  blanched,  but 
those  blue  eyes  of  hers  blazed  with  sudden  fire. 

"You  have  heard  of  him?  You  know  where  he 
is?"  she  gasped,  all  a-quiver  with  excitement. 

The  sailor  was  mystified.  Nevertheless,  her  mani- 
fest interest  almost  brought  back  the  sympathetic  note 
to  his  voice  —  almost,  but  not  quite,  and  she  was  aware 
of  the  altered  tone. 

"You  are  asking  too  much,"  he  said  with  a  little 
laugh.  "Africa  does  not  yield  her  secrets  so  readily, 
I  assure  you.  Still,  I  have  a  rather  complicated  yarn 

218 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

for  you.  Shall  we  sit  here,  or  would  you  care  for  a 
stroll  in  the  garden  ?  I  take  it  we  are  less  likely  to  be 
disturbed  there." 

Now  it  was  Evelyn's  turn  to  be  puzzled. 

It  was  no  disloyalty  to  the  memory  of  one  who  once 
had  been  her  lover,  but  the  absolute  necessity  of  chap- 
eroning Beryl  Baumgartner  during  her  mother's  in- 
disposition that  made  dancing  a  possibility  that  night. 

"The  garden  by  all  means,"  she  agreed,  trying  hard 
to  restrain  her  agitation.  So  they  walked  among  the 
dusty  palms  and  oleanders,  and  Captain  Mortimer 
told  her  something  of  the  strange  doings  of  the  Blue 
Man  of  El  Hamra. 

When  the  Valiant  paid  her  second  visit  to  Rabat, 
the  Bey  was  inclined  to  be  communicative.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  news  of  the  Nila  Moullah's  dis- 
astrous fight  with  the  Evil  One  spread  so  rapidly  that 
it  reached  the  seaboard  within  a  fortnight,  whereas  the 
prophet's  journey  in  the  reverse  direction  took  three 
weeks.  Other  items  filtered  through  the  Atlas  passes, 
and  finally  there  came  a  man  who  was  actually  in 
Lektawa  at  the  time  of  the  dread  combat.  He  it  was 
who  first  gave  definite  assurance  that  Warden  lived. 
When  the  new  ruler  of  that  disturbed  city  had  slain 
every  individual  overtly  opposed  to  him,  and  the  re- 
maining inhabitants  were  meditating  on  the  divine 
right  of  kings,  it  occurred  to  someone  that  the  Naza- 
rene  and  Beni  Kalli  were  missing.  A  caravan  from 
Bel  Abbas  reported  that  a  European  in  Arab  clothing, 
accompanied  by  a  Hausa  soldier  and  a  negress,  had 

219 


The  Message 

ridden  in  there  from  the  north,  and  was  recruiting  a 
kafila  to  go  on  to  Taudeni  and  Timbuktu.  The  Frank 
had  plenty  of  gold-dust  in  quills,  both  he  and  the 
Hausa  were  well  armed,  he  spoke  Arabic  like  a  native, 
and  claimed  to  be  the  special  protege  of  the  Blue  Man 
of  El  Hamra,  who  had  carried  benevolence  to  the 
point  of  giving  him  his  own  particular  wrap  of  blue 
cotton,  which  was  exhibited  to  the  faithful,  not  so 
much  for  worship,  but  as  a  guarantee  of  good  faith. 

It  was  noticed,  too,  that  the  knife  used  by  Satan  in 
destroying  the  Nila  Moullah  resembled  one  that  was 
wont  to  hang  at  the  girdle  of  his  successor,  so  the  de- 
duction was  reasonable,  provided  the  deducer  were 
sufficiently  far  away  from  Lektawa,  that  the  flight  of 
the  Christian  and  his  accomplices  had  something  in 
common  with  the  moullah's  death  and  the  establish- 
ment of  the  new  regime. 

This,  and  more,  the  Bey  of  Rabat  discreetly  told  to 
the  captain  of  the  warship.  It  was  clear  enough,  in 
some  senses,  but  it  left  Evelyn  greatly  bewildered. 

"These  names  of  people  and  places  are  so  much 
Greek  to  me,"  she  cried.  "What  is  the  outcome  of  it 
all  ?  Is  Captain  Warden  marching  across  Africa  ?  " 

Mortimer  was  prepared  for  that  question.  He  un- 
folded a  map,  and  they  pored  over  it  together.  Small 
as  the  type  was  in  which  many  of  the  towns  were  shown, 
the  bright  moonlight  would  have  permitted  the  names 
to  be  read.  But  that  was  unnecessary.  The  sailor 
knew  exactly  where  to  point  while  he  explained 
matters. 

220 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

"Here  is  Rabat,"  he  said,  "and  here,  beyond  the 
mountain  chain,  Lektawa.  Now,  there  appears  to  be 
little  doubt  that  Captain  Warden  was  the  European 
encountered  at  Bel  Abbas,  and  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
the  north-bound  caravan's  account  of  his  proceedings 
there.  A  long  way  south,  at  the  very  verge  of  a  tre- 
mendous stretch  of  desert,  we  come  to  Timbuktu. 
The  obvious  inference  is  that  he  adopted  the  Sahara 
route  as  safer  than  the  journey  across  Morocco,  and 
headed  that  way  in  order  to  reach  Nigeria,  the  place 
where  his  duty  lies." 

"Can  he  do  it  ?  Dare  I  even  hope  that  he  will  pass 
unharmed  through  thousands  of  miles  of  wild  country 
inhabited  only  by  savages?" 

Her  voice  broke,  and  the  sailor  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears.  More  perplexed  than  ever,  he 
tried  to  dispel  her  foreboding,  though  none  knew  better 
than  he  the  perils  Warden  would  have  to  encounter. 

"Steady,  Miss  Dane,"  he  said  cheerily.  "He 
jumped  the  worst  fence  when  he  got  away  from  Lek- 
tawa with  money  and  supplies.  The  fact  that  he  made 
Bel  Abbas  vouches  for  his  ability  to  take  the  rest  of 
the  trip,  and  he  will  be  on  the  Niger  River  long  before 
he  reaches  the  thousand-mile  limit.  Once  there,  he 
is  practically  in  British  territory.  To  put  it  plainly, 
two  months  ago  I  didn't  think  his  chance  of  being  alive 
amounted  to  a  row  of  beans,  whereas  to-day  I  am  con- 
fident he  will  pull  through." 

"So  you  did  not  tell  me  everything  at  Funchal  ? 
Are  you  keeping  back  the  less  pleasing  facts  now  ? " 

221 


The  Message 

"No.  On  my  honor,  I  have  given  you  the  whole 
budget." 

"When  will  it  be  known  whether  or  not  —  he  has  — 
arrived  in  Nigeria?" 

"Ah,  that  depends  on  so  many  circumstances.  It 
is  six  hundred  miles  from  Bel  Abbas  to  the  Niger,  and 
—  there  may  be  difficulties.  May  I  ask  you  a  personal 
question,  Miss  Dane?  Are  you  Captain  Warden's 
fiancee?" 

"I  —  I  thought  so,"  sobbed  Evelyn. 

"  You  thought  so  ?     Didn't  you  know  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  tense  silence.  Then  Evelyn 
swept  the  tears  from  her  eyes  with  a  splendid  con- 
fidence. The  moonbeams  spread  a  silvery  riband 
across  the  dark  Atlantic  toward  the  horizon.  Beyond 
that  magic  path  lay  Africa,  and  her  heart  had  bridged 
the  void  ere  she  answered. 

"Yes,"  she  said  proudly.  "I  know!  Never  again 
shall  doubt  find  room  in  my  mind.  Oh,  Captain 
Mortimer,  if  only  I  might  tell  you  what  I  have  suffered 
during  these  horrible  months,  when  never  a  word 
came  from  him,  and  another  woman  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity of  taunting  me  with  the  lie  that  she  was  his 
promised  wife!" 

"You  are  speaking  of  Mrs.  Laing,  I  suppose?" 

For  an  instant  Evelyn  did  not  appreciate  the  sig- 
nificance of  that  marvelously  accurate  guess.  Then 
she  turned  and  looked  at  him  in  wonderment. 

"Why  do  you  mention  her?"  she  cried,  almost 
hysterically. 

222 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

The  sailor  smiled,  though  his  face  showed  some 
degree  of  confusion. 

"I  have  done  it  now,  so  I  may  as  well  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  But,  mind  you,  I  am  revealing  official 
secrets,  so  please  forget  what  I  am  telling  you.  Mrs. 
Laing  went  to  the  Foreign  Office,  and  claimed  to  be 
engaged  to  Warden.  For  some  reason  —  perhaps 
some  one  there  had  seen  you  —  she  was  not  believed, 
and  that  is  why  I  was  sent  to  you  at  Funchal.  At  any 
rate,  they  seem  to  know  all  about  you  in  Whitehall." 

"But  only  yesterday  Mrs.  Laing  pretended  that 
Arthur  —  that  Captain  Warden  had  written  to  her, 
saying  he  was  engaged  on  a  secret  mission  for  the 
Government." 

"You  can  take  it  from  me  he  did  nothing  of  the 
sort.  Outside  the  department,  no  one  knew  where  he 
had  gone  or  what  he  was  doing.  He  even  passed  under 
an  alias  on  board  the  Water  Witch.  There  —  I  didn't 
mean  to  tell  you  that.  I  am  but  a  poor  diplomatist,  I 
fear.  And  that  reminds  me:  I  must  hark  back  to  my 
errand.  Why  has  Mrs.  Laing  come  here?" 

Evelyn  lifted  her  head  defiantly.  Mortimer  had 
blundered  into  the  worst  possible  line  of  inquiry. 

"She  has  told  me  repeatedly  that  she  is  in  Las 
Palmas  in  order  to  meet  Captain  Warden  when  he 
returns  from  the  Oku  territory." 

The  man  glanced  around  to  be  sure  they  were  not 
overheard. 

"That,  at  least,  is  untrue,  because  he  is  not  there. 
Owing  to  his  absence,  another  deputy  commissioner 

223 


The  Message 

is  appointed.  I  expect  Mrs.  Laing's  talkativeness  does 
not  extend  to  her  relations  with  Miguel  Figuero  ?" 

"Ah,  how  I  loathe  that  man!  He  —  pestered  me 
with  his  attentions  at  Hamburg,  and  Trouville,  and 
Arcachon,  and  Biarritz.  He  was  either  on  board  the 
yacht  or  visited  us  at  each  port  of  call.  But  it  is  only 
fair  to  admit,"  she  added,  "that  he  seemed  rather  to 
avoid  Mrs.  Laing." 

"I  have  reason  to  believe  that  they  are  acting  in 
collusion,"  said  Mortimer  dryly.  "How  long  do  you 
remain  on  the  island,  Miss  Dane?" 

"There  was  some  talk  the  other  day  of  our  return.  " 

"What,  all  of  you?" 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Baumgartner  wishes  to  pass  the  spring 
in  the  Riviera,  and  her  husband  says  he  has  important 
business  at  Frankfort  in  February,  so  he  will  leave  us 
at  Nice  while  he  attends  to  it." 

"Do  you  go  hi  the  yacht?" 

"I  suppose  so.     She  is  there  —  in  the  harbor." 

"Yes.  The  Sans  Sotici  does  not  travel  far  without 
my  knowledge.  You  changed  your  crew  at  Hamburg, 
I  believe?" 

"Yes,  all  our  Englishmen  were  sent  home.  Mr. 
Baumgartner  said  that  Germans  were  cheaper  and 
more  obedient." 

"What  was  your  opinion  of  the  new  crew?" 

"I  didn't  like  them  at  first,  as  I  had  to  bother  my 
wits  in  talking  German  if  I  wished  to  speak  to  any  of 
them,  but  they  are  a  very  superior  set  of  men." 

"You  carry  a  good  many  hands  for  a  small  vessel  ?" 
224 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

"Well,  yes.     Even  I  thought  that." 

"Did  you  ship  a  large  quantity  of  heavy  stores  at 
Hamburg?" 

"I  don't  know.  We  were  in  a  hotel  there  five  or 
six  days,  and  never  visited  the  yacht  during  that 
tune." 

"Of  course,  Miss  Dane,  if  you  should  be  asked  why 
I  called,  we  are  old  friends,  eh  ?  I  hope  I  may  claim 
that  privilege  apart  from  other  considerations?" 

"You  have  been  most  kind,  Captain  Mortimer.  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  a  load  of  care  you  have  taken 
from  me.  Now,  I  must  go  to  the  ballroom  and  see 
that  none  of  those  romantic  Spaniards  has  run  off  with 
my  charge." 

"Who  is  that?"  he  inquired. 

"Beryl  Baumgartner.  I  am  her  companion,  you 
know.  Though  I  am  only  three  years  older  than 
Beryl,  I  am  credited  with  so  much  more  gravity  that 
her  mother  trusts  her  to  me  absolutely." 

"Is  Mrs.  Laing  there?" 

"She  was  dancing  with  the  Commandante  when  I 
came  out." 

He  laughed. 

"I  shall  probably  see  you  again  to-morrow  evening," 
he  said.  "Some  of  my  officers  will  be  ashore,  and  I 
may  be  dining  here." 

He  took  his  leave  with  a  cordiality  that  was  in  marked 
contrast  to  his  earlier  frigid  manner,  but  Evelyn  had 
long  since  forgotten  her  surprise  at  his  momentary 
curtness. 

225 


The  Message 

The  extraordinary  tidings  of  Warden's  adventures 
in  Morocco  absorbed  her  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
else.  She  wanted  to  study  a  map,  to  follow  his  wan- 
derings in  spirit,  to  weave  fantasies  about  his  track 
across  the  desert  with  all  the  ardor  of  reawakened 
love.  How  could  she  ever  have  doubted  him?  She 
was  brave  enough  to  flout  Rosamund  Laing's  first 
attempt  to  undermine  her  trust  —  why  had  she  yielded 
to  the  strain  during  these  later  days  of  weary  waiting  ? 
She  was  sure  it  was  not  so  with  her  lover.  Some  time, 
quite  soon,  there  would  be  a  letter  or  a  cablegram 
announcing  his  safe  arrival  at  some  weirdly  named 
British  station  in  Northern  Nigeria.  She  must  learn 
the  map  of  West  Africa  by  heart.  Perhaps  her  friend, 
Captain  Mortimer,  might  tell  her  from  what  town  she 
might  expect  to  receive  the  earliest  news. 

But  Evelyn's  humble  light-heartedness  was  destined 
not  to  survive  the  next  ten  minutes.  Looking  in  at  the 
ballroom,  she  saw  Beryl  waltzing  with  a  Canario 
fruit-grower,  a  youthful  Spaniard  of  immense  wealth 
who  owned  a  large  part  of  the  island.  While  crossing 
the  hall  with  intent  to  find  the  manager,  and  get  the 
loan  of  an  atlas,  she  almost  ran  into  the  arms  of  Lord 
Fairholme,  who  was  standing  there,  talking  to  Mrs. 
Laing. 

"By  gad,  Miss  Dane,  it's  just  like  bein'  in  Loch- 
merig,"  he  cried.  "Here  we  are  again,  you  know  — 
the  same  old  circus.  Couldn't  stand  the  British  climate, 
so  I  fled  here,  per  Spanish  packet,  as  the  Post  Office 
says." 

226 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you  again,"  she  began,  but 
Mrs.  Laing  broke  in  breathlessly. 

"They've  just  finished  that  waltz,  Lord  Fairholme. 
Shall  we  make  up  a  set  for  the  Lancers?" 

"Well  —  er  —  no,"  he  said  lamely.  "You  see,  I'm 
not  dancing  just  now." 

Rosamund  flushed  with  annoyance.  Her  rudeness 
to  Evelyn  had  caused  her  to  forget  Fairholme's  be- 
reavement. 

"Pray  forgive  me,"  she  cried.  "How  thoughtless  I 
was!  Who  was  the  man  you  were  conversing  with  so 
deeply  in  the  garden,  Miss  Dane?" 

"A  friend,  an  officer  on  board  one  of  the  ships  in 
the  harbor.  Are  you  making  a  long  stay  in  Las  Palmas, 
Lord  Fairholme?" 

The  good-natured  little  peer  was  conscious  that  the 
two  women  were  at  daggers  drawn,  and  the  younger 
one  could  evidently  match  her  senior  in  contemptuous 
indifference. 

"Dunno  yet,"  he  grinned.  "It  depends  on  how 
Mrs.  Laing  and  you  treat  me.  Judgin'  by  the  giddy 
throng  in  the  ballroom,  I'm  afraid  I  shall  figure  again 
in  the  'also  ran'  class." 

"Miss  Dane  is  free.  I  can  vouch  for  that,"  laughed 
Rosamund. 

But  Evelyn's  answering  smile  was  more  genuine. 

"Mrs.  Laing's  statements  are  invariably  inaccurate 
where  I  am  concerned,"  she  said.  "If  your  matri- 
monial choice  rests  between  her  and  me,  Lord  Fair- 
holme,  it  is  only  fair  that  I  should  tell  you  I  have 

227 


The  Message 

promised  to  many  Captain  Arthur  Warden,  of  the 
Nigeria  Protectorate,  when  next  he  returns  to  Eng- 
land." 

"Captain  Arthur  Warden!"  gasped  the  earl,  who, 
despite  his  habitual  air  of  buffoonery,  could  remember 
some  things  exceedingly  well. 

"Yes.     Do  you  know  him?" 

"Er  —  not  exactly.     I've  heard  his  name." 

Rosamund,  scarcely  prepared  for  this  turning  of  the 
tables,  instantly  recalled  the  unpleasant  fact  that  Billy 
Thring  was  by  her  side  in  the  hall  at  Lochmerig  when 
she  purloined  Evelyn's  letter.  He  looked  at  her  now 
fixedly,  as  the  color  in  her  face  rose  and  fell  with  tell- 
tale confusion.  For  once,  she  was  unable  to  force  a 
retort.  She  almost  feared  that  Fairholme  would  blurt 
forth  some  reference  to  the  letter. 

"I  was  under  a  different  impression,"  she  managed 
to  say.  "But  I  am  sure  our  private  affairs  are  not  of 
vital  interest  to  Lord  Fairholme." 

"Where  is  old  I.  D.  B.  ?"  put  in  the  man,  anxious 
to  restore  harmony.  "Shootin'  wild  duck  by  moon- 
light, eh,  what?" 

Evelyn  resumed  her  quest  of  the  manager.  She  had 
not  failed  to  notice  Rosamund  Laing's  unaccounta- 
ble embarrassment,  but  she  attributed  it  to  their  per- 
sonal feud,  and  imagined  that  her  rival  was  furiously 
annoyed  by  her  outspokenness.  It  was  fortunate,  in 
some  respects,  that  the  incident  was  fresh  in  her  mind. 
She  was  soon  to  be  enlightened. 

She  borrowed  an  atlas,  and  was  studying  the  omi- 
228 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

nously  vague  details  of  the  interior  of  Northwest  Africa, 
when  a  maid-servant  came  to  her  room.  With  some 
difficulty,  for  Evelyn  knew  very  little  Spanish,  the  girl 
made  her  understand  that  un  muchado  Ingles  wished 
to  see  her.  An  English  boy!  Who  could  it  be  at  that 
hour?  The  few  English  children  visiting  the  island 
were  in  bed  long  since,  or  ought  to  be,  if  they  were  not. 
Closing  the  atlas,  she  followed  the  criada  down-stairs. 
In  the  doorway,  trying  to  make  out  the  English  of  a 
gigantic  hall-porter,  was  a  sturdy  youth  dressed  in 
sailor  fashion.  She  recognized  him  at  the  first  glance, 
but  some  instinct  warned  her  not  to  cry  aloud  her 
astonishment. 

Hurrying  forward,  she  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Chris!"  she  whispered,  "is  it  really  you?" 

His  chubby  face  creased  with  joy  at  the  sight  of 
her. 

"Yes,  miss,  it's  me  right  enough,"  he  said.  "Can 
you  come  with  me  to  father?  He's  orfly  anxious  ter 
see  yer,  miss." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Out  there  in  the  road,  miss,  standin'  orf  an'  on  till 
I  heave  in  sight.  He  wouldn't  show  up  at  the  hotel, 
miss,  'cause  'is  wooden  leg  sort  o'  makes  folk  stare  at 
'im,  an'  he  don't  want  too  many  people  ter  know  'e 
kem  'ere  to  find  you." 

"  Came  to  find  me  —  all  the  way  from  England  ? 
Who  sent  him?" 

They  were  in  the  roadway  now,  and  walking  fast  in 
the  direction  of  the  alameda,  or  public  gardens,  where 

229 


The  Message 

a  military  band  plays  each  evening  for  the  inhabitants 
of  Las  Palm  as. 

"  Bless  yer  'eart,  miss,  we've  done  a  lot  more'n  come 
from  England,"  said  Chris.  "We've  followed  yer  to 
Scotland,  an'  Germany,  an'  France,  an'  Madeira. 
But  father'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  My  eye,  wasn't'  e 
pleased  w'en  our  steamer  rounded  the  mole  an'  'e 
sighted  the  San  Sowsy.  'Lord  love  a  duck,  Chris,' 
sez  'e,  '  there  she  is  at  last.  Oo'll  say  now  that  Peter 
Evans  'asn't  done  as  he  was  tole ' ! " 

Evelyn,  in  her  excitement,  still  held  the  boy's  arm. 
He  felt  that  she  was  trembling,  though  her  voice  was 
calm. 

"  Chris,"  she  repeated,  "  who  sent  you  ?  " 

"  Cap'n  Warden,  miss.  But  there !  It's  dad's  yarn. 
You  must  'ave  it  from  'im,  from  chapter  one  to  finis." 

Though  on  the  brink  of  tears  —  for  she  was  over- 
wrought —  the  girl  could  not  help  smiling. 

"  You  are  becoming  quite  literary,"  she  said. 

"  That's  the  way  I  read  a  book  K  it's  any  good,  miss, 
—  a  book  like  '  The  Scalp  Hunters '  or  '  Nick  of  the 
Woods '  —  every  word,  from  beginnin'  to  end.  There 
'e  is  —  that's  father  —  on  the  seat  under  the  tree.  I 
s'pose  'e's  tired.  It  was  a  long  tramp  through  the 
dust  from  the  quay." 

Peter  received  her  joyously. 

"  Sink  me ! "  he  cried,  "  but  it's  a  cure  for  sore  eyes 
ter  see  you  at  last,  miss.  It  is  you,  isn't  it?" 

He  was  not  content  until  he  had  looked  her  full  in 
the  face  in  the  moonlight. 

230 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

"You're  a  bit  thinner,"  he  commented.  "People 
can  say  wot  they  like,  but  Ole  England's  hard  to  beat 
for  fresh  air  an'  sound  vittals.  Chris  an'  me  would  ha' 
starved  on  that  tub  of  a  mail-boat  if  we  'adn't  palled 
in  with  the  Scotch  engineer,  who  med  'em  cook  some 
plain  food.  Hello!  You're  bin  cryin'?  Now,  wot 
the " 

"Peter,"  said  Evelyn  brokenly,  "for  Heaven's 
sake,  if  you  have  news  of  Captain  Warden  tell  me 
what  it  is." 

The  ex-pilot  produced  a  frayed  and  soiled  parcel 
from  a  pocket. 

"There  you  are,  miss,"  he  cried  triumphantly. 
"I've  done  it!  'Find  Miss  Dane,  no  matter  wot 
it  costs'  —  them's  my  sailin'  orders  from  the  cap'n. 
'Deliver  this  letter  into  Miss  Dane's  own  'ands.' 
Right  again !  —  as  per  code !  Now,  miss,  if  I  was 
you,  I'd  just  open  that  there  envelope  an'  see 
wot  'e  sez.  Then,  mebbe,  I  can  fill  in  a  bit.  I  tole 
'im  I'd  find  you  within  a  month,  but  I  couldn't! 
Nobody  could  unless  he  was  a  bird,  an'  a  jolly  good 
flier  at  that.  W'y,  I've  follered  you  pretty  well  round 
the  compass.  An'  my  godfather! — 'aven't  you  cov- 
ered up  yer  tracks ! " 

The  first  thing  Evelyn's  trembling  fingers  withdrew 
from  the  package  was  the  jeweler's  case  containing  the 
ring.  "When  the  diamonds  flashed  in  the  moonlight 
she  uttered  a  choking  cry  and  her  lips  trembled  piti- 
fully. So  this  was  Arthur  Warden's  answer  to  Rosa- 
mund Laing's  jibes!  Without  hesitation,  without 

231 


The  Message 

waiting  to  read  a  word  of  the  many  pages  of  manu- 
script that  accompanied  it,  she  slipped  it  on  to  the 
engagement  finger  of  her  left  hand.  It  did  not  fit.  It 
was  far  too  large.  But  what  did  that  matter?  Its 
glories  might  await  her  scrutiny  another  time.  Just 
then  she  wanted  to  assure  herself  that  she  had  gone 
back  to  her  allegiance  before  she  was  vouchsafed  a 
syllable  of  explanation.  It  was  humility,  not  pride, 
that  governed  her  action. 

Peter,  however,  did  not  regard  the  glittering  ring 
with  such  self-effacement.  His  prominent  eyes  bulged 
with  surprise,  and  he  gripped  his  son's  shoulder  em- 
phatically. 

"Tell  you  wot,  Chris,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "If 
we'd  ha'  known  wot  was  in  that  billy-doo  we'd  not  ha' 
slep'  so  sound  o'  nights!" 

"Not  while  we  was  in  furrin  parts,  father." 

"Not  in  any  parts,  me  lad.  Them  sort  o'  sparks'll 
get  you  a  knife  under  your  ribs  anywhere.  Now,  if  I 
was  Miss  Dane,  I'd  turn  it  into  money,  quick.  But 
she  won't,  mark  my  words.  She'll  just  twiddle  it 
round,  an'  shove  in  a  hairpin  w'en  there's  a  chandelier 
handy,  an'  lean  on  'er  elbow  w'en  the  light  shines  on 
the  port  bow  —  all  to  make  the  other  wimmen  green 
with  envy." 

Though  Evelyn  was  deep  in  her  letter  —  though  her 
brows  were  knitted  and  her  little  hands  clenched  as  the 
full  measure  of  Rosamund's  perfidy  was  revealed  to 
her,  she  could  not  help  overhearing  Peter's  stage  aside. 
For  a  second  her  eyes  were  raised  from  the  stupefying 

232 


Evelyn  has  Unexpected  Visitors 

record,  and  they  blazed  with  a  light  that  surpassed  the 
fire  in  the  diamonds. 

"You  are  right,  Peter,"  she  cried,  and  her  voice 
sounded  shrilly  in  her  own  ears.  "One  woman,  at 
least,  shall  see  my  ring,  even  though  envy  were  to  kill 
her." 


233 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EVELYN  ENTERS  THE  FRAY 

ONLY  a  woman  can  fathom  another  woman's  mind. 
A  man  tries  to  think  logically;  a  woman  throws  logic 
to  the  winds,  and  reads  her  opponent's  tactics  by 
intuition.  Though  Warden  was  not  wholly  devoid  of 
suspicion  of  Rosamund's  disinterestedness  when  he 
penned  the  plain  statement  which  Evelyn  now  skimmed 
through  by  the  light  of  the  Las  Palmas  moon,  he  little 
dreamed  that  he  was  framing  a  damning  indictment  of 
one  who  claimed  to  be  his  friend.  But  Evelyn  ex- 
tracted from  every  line  the  hidden  truth.  A  gentle- 
woman to  her  finger-tips,  her  loathing  of  Mrs.  Laing's 
despicable  tactics  was  so  overpowering  for  a  while  that 
she  could  only  vent  her  scorn  and  contempt  by  little 
gasps  and  sobs  of  indignation. 

Her  lover's  account  of  events  at  Ostend  and  in  Lon- 
don was  transparently  honest.  She  saw  now  that  by 
some  clever  and  unscrupulous  device  his  letters  and 
telegrams  had  been  withheld.  The  burking  of  her 
own  letters,  sent  writh  unfailing  regularity  until  out- 
raged pride  bade  her  cease,  was  equally  clear.  But 
how  had  their  common  enemy  achieved  these  results? 
Why  did  Airs.  Laing  flush  and  look  guilty  when  Lord 
Fairholme  recognized  Warden's  name  half  an  hour  ago  ? 

234 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

Well,  she  would  ask  the  genial  little  nobleman  for  an 
explanation.  He  would  be  candid,  she  was  sure;  per- 
haps he  might  help  to  illumine  some  of  the  dark  places 
of  the  last  four  months. 

Peter  Evans,  watching  her  eyes  as  they  devoured 
page  after  page,  winked  solemnly  at  Chris,  but  held 
his  peace  until  the  letter  was  restored  to  its  envelope. 
Then  he  felt  that  his  innings  had  come. 

"Well,  miss,"  he  remarked  quietly,  "does  that  round 
off  everything  in  ship-shape  style?" 

For  answer,  she  put  both  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
and  looked  into  his  weather-beaten  face. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "I  can  never  repay  you  for  what 
you  have  done.  Captain  Warden  tells  me  he  had 
faith  in  you,  and  indeed  you  have  justified  his  confi- 
dence. But  how  did  you  and  Chris  manage  to  travel 
all  this  long  way  to  find  me  ?  What  has  it  cost  you  ? 
I  have  not  much  money  at  my  command  here ' 

"Money,  miss?  Did  the  Cap'n  say  nothink  about 
it?" 

"No." 

"  Just  like  'im.  There  never  was  a  more  free-handed 
gent  than  'im.  Funny  thing,  ain't  it,  that  the  wrong 
people  are  bloomin'  millionaires.  I  s'pose  that's  w'y 
they  'ave  it  —  coss  they  stick  to  it.  Lord  love  a  duck, 
ther's  bin  no  trouble  about  money!  He  did  some  tricks 
at  the  Casino  — 

"Yes,  yes,  he  has  told  me  that." 

"Well,  w'en  'e  gives  me  that  there  packidge,  'e 
forks  out  fifty  quid,  an'  says,  'Peter,  if  you  want  more, 

235 


The  Message 

go  to  my  bank.'  But  fifty  golden  suvrins  is  a  small 
fortin  to  a  sailor-man  —  I've  known  the  time  it  'ud 
keep  me  an'  my  missus  an'  Chris  for  a  year  —  an'  I 
wasn't  flingin'  it  about  for  bookin'  clerks  an'  pursers 
to  pick  up,  neether.  We  'ad  to  dig  a  bit  out  o'  the 
bank  w'en  this  trip  showed  up,  but  afore  that  Chris  an' 
me  worked  our  passidge  to  Scotland,  an'  Hamburg, 
an'  as  far  south  as  Bordeaux." 

"You  went  to  Scotland?    Why?" 

"Afore  the  Cap'n  left  Lunnon  'e  'ad  a  telegram 
from  the  coastguard  to  say  the  San  Sowsy  headed 
sou'east  by  east  from  Lochmerig,  an'  them  ain't  the 
sailin'  directions  for  the  Shetlands,  or  they  wasn't  w'en 
I  was  at  sea.  It  seemed  to  me  some  old  salt  there- 
abouts might  help  a  bit  —  fishermen  keep  a  pretty 
close  eye  on  passin'  craft,  miss  —  so  off  we  goes.  I 
shipped  as  extra  hand  on  the  Inverkeld,  bound  from 
London  to  Aberdeen,  an'  Chris  was  stooard  in  the 
engineers'  mess.  Sure  enough,  I  lights  on  a  Montrose 
herrin'-boat  as  'ad  seen  the  yacht  bearin'  away  in  the 
line  for  Hamburg,  I  follered,  on  a  tramp  from  New- 
castle, but  I  was  a  week  late.  You  see,  my  orders 
was  'into  her  own  'ands,  Peter.'" 

"Oh,  you  are  a  dear!" 

"Well,  mebbe.  I've  bin  called  most  things  in  me 
time,  miss.  But  it's  spinnin'  a  tremenjous  long  yarn 
to  go  over  all  the  ground.  Wot  I  want  to  ax  you  now 
is  this  —  wot  stopped  Cap'n  Warden  from  gettin'  your 
letters?" 

"Ah,  Peter!  a  wicked  woman,  I  am  afraid." 
236 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

"D'ye  'ear,  Chris?"  and  Peter  turned  solemnly  to 
his  son.  "Wot  did  I  tell  yer?  You  see,  miss,"  he 
went  on,  "I  looked  in  at  the  Lodge,  an'  med  friends 
with  a  servant  or  two,  an'  it  kem  out  that  Mrs.  Laing 
collared  a  telegram  addressed  to  you.  'Was  it  him- 
portant?'  sez  one  chap.  'Reel  himportant,'  sez  I,  'it 
was  from  'er  young  man.'  Beg  pardon,  miss,  but  that's 
the  way  we  talks  among  ourselves.  'Oo  is  he?'  sez 
the  other  fellow.  'Captain  Warden,'  sez  I.  'Not 
Captain  Arthur  Warden,  of  Ostend?'  sez  'e.  'The 
very  man,'  sez  I.  'Dash  my  eyes,'  sez  'e,  'that's  queer. 
Mrs.  Laing  wanted  a  letter  out  of  the  box  one  day 
w'en  I  was  goin'  to  the  post,  an'  that's  the  very  name 
as  was  on  it.  Wot's  'is  little  game  ?  Is  'e  a-playin'  up 
to  both  of  'em?'  'Young  man,'  sez  I,  'you  don't  know 
'im.  'E's  the  straightest  gentleman  as  ever  wore  shoe- 
leather.'  I  axed  'im  w'en  the  incident  occurred,  as 
they  say  in  the  noospapers,  an'  'e  tole  me  it  was  just 
arter  Mrs.  Laing  kem  to  Lochmerig.  In  fact,  'e 
wouldn't  ha'  known  'oo  she  was  if  she  'adn't  bin  standin' 
in  the  'all  talkin'  to  —  to  —  wot's  'is  name,  Chris  ?" 

"Lord  Fairholme?"  broke  in  Evelyn. 

"No,  miss,  that  wasn't  it  —  not  in  the  same 
street." 

"Billy  Thring?" 

"Tally!  I've  got  it  all  logged  up  in  my  cabin.  I 
wasn't  sartin  I'd  see  you  to-night,  or  I'd  ha'  brought 
the  book.  That's  'im  —  Billy  Thring  —  it  sounds 
familiar  like,  if  he's  a  swell,  but  that's  wot  they  called 
'im  at  Lochmerig." 

237 


The  Message 

"Peter,  you  are  a  wonder.  You  have  found  out  the 
one  thing  I  wanted  to  know." 

"Excuse  me,  miss,  but  you're  a  bit  of  a  wonder 
yourself.  If  that  was  the  on'y  missin'  link,  w'y  didn't 
you  write  to  me,  care  o'  the  Pilots'  Office,  Cardiff  ?  I 
could  ha'  put  you  straight  within  a  week.  Any  ship's 
skipper  would  ha'  guessed  my  address,  if  you  tole  'im 
about  the  Nancy  an'  gev  'im  my  name." 

"I  fear  I  am  very  much  to  blame,"  said  Evelyn 
contritely.  "But  you  hardly  realize  yet  how  I  have 
been  victimized.  Now  I  must  go.  It  is  very  late. 
Where  are  you  staying?" 

"Chris  an'  me  will  turn  in  with  our  engineer  friend 
on  board  the  Cid.  At  least  that's  wot  /  call  the  old 
tub,  but  these  Spanish  jokers  make  it  into  Thith. 
Did  y'  ever  'ear  anythink  funnier'n  that?" 

She  laughed  blithely,  arranged  an  early  hour  to 
meet  the  two  at  the  mole  next  day,  and  sped  back  to 
the  hotel.  She  wanted  to  read  that  thrice-precious 
letter  again.  Seen  in  the  moonlight,  it  seemed  to  be 
fantastic,  unreal.  The  words  danced  before  her  eyes. 
Her  brain  had  only  half  grasped  its  extraordinary 
meanings. 

In  the  privacy  of  her  own  room  she  should  go  through 
it  slowly,  weighing  its  bewildering  revelations,  taking 
to  her  very  heart  the  outspoken,  manly  sentences  that 
assured  her  of  Warden's  devotion,  and  planning  with 
new  zest  the  means  whereby  she  might  circumvent  her 
enemies  and  his.  Warden  had  been  deceived  even 
more  grossly  than  she  herself.  His  faithful  record  of 

238 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

Rosamund's  malicious  innuendoes  during  the  dinner 
at  the  Savoy  Hotel  gave  ample  proof  of  that.  It  was 
quite  true  she  had  talked  with  Figuero  in  the  garden 
at  Lochmerig.  The  man  naturally  interested  her;  his 
manner  of  speech  was  quaint,  and  he  told  her  strange 
things  about  the  country  in  which  the  whole  of  her 
lover's  active  career  might  be  passed.  Was  that  a 
crime?  And  how  shameful  that  any  woman  should 
write  such  a  wicked  untruth  as  to  say  that  she  had 
gossiped  to  Thring  and  others  about  the  men  of  Oku ! 
Of  course,  Mrs.  Laing  had  obtained  her  information 
from  the  stolen  letter.  Evelyn  remembered  perfectly 
well  the  unfortunate  postscript  in  which  she  alluded  to 
the  negroes  and  the  calabash.  She  meant  only  to 
soften  the  harshness  of  her  comments  on  Rosamund 
and  the  two  foreigners,  but  it  was  obvious  now  that 
she  could  have  written  nothing  more  harmful  to 
Warden's  mission. 

And  then,  with  a  sudden  horror  that  made  her  white 
to  the  lips,  she  realized  what  it  meant  —  that  Warden 
had  never  received  her  letter,  that  Rosamund  had 
adroitly  availed  herself  of  the  details  it  contained,  and 
that  her  lover  had  gone  to  Africa  with  a  lurking  doubt 
in  his  heart  of  the  one  woman  in  the  world  whom  he 
trusted.  Did  he  think  her  really  the  base  creature  she 
was  depicted  ?  Oh,  it  was  intolerable !  She  would 
never  forgive  Mrs.  Laing  —  no,  never!  Her  rival  had 
stooped  to  a  meanness  that  could  not  be  borne  —  she 
must  be  punished,  with  a  vengeance  at  once  swift  and 
merciless. 

239 


The  Message 

All  this  was  very  un-Christian,  and  wholly  unlike 
the  delightfully  shy  yet  lovable  girl  to  whom  Warden 
lost  his  heart  during  the  midsummer  madness  of  Cowes 
and  Plymouth,  but  Evelyn  was  stirred  to  the  depths 
of  a  passionate  nature;  not  for  the  first  time  in  Las 
Palmas,  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

She  awoke  in  a  better  frame  of  mind,  though  still 
determined  to  bring  Mrs.  Laing  to  her  knees  at  the 
first  opportunity.  Keeping  the  tryst  with  Peter,  she 
took  him  fully  into  her  confidence.  He  was  able  to 
supply  many  minor  items  of  information  that  fitted  the 
pieces  of  the  puzzle  more  accurately  together.  He 
did  not  know  what  had  become  of  Warden,  but  Evelyn 
made  no  scruple  of  telling  him  the  facts  within  her 
knowledge. 

She  recked  little  of  Government  secrets  and  the 
byways  of  Imperial  politics.  The  ex-pilot  and  his 
sturdy  offspring  were  now  the  only  witnesses  of  her 
good  faith.  Perhaps  they  might  meet  Warden  in 
England  before  he  was  able  to  communicate  with  her. 
In  that  event,  she  wanted  Peter  to  be  in  a  position  to 
do  for  her  lover  what  he  had  done  for  her,  and  disabuse 
Warden's  mind  of  the  cloud  of  lies  by  which  it  had 
been  darkened. 

Father  and  son  were  returning  at  once  by  the  out- 
going mail  steamer.  She  pressed  Peter  to  accept  what 
little  money  she  could  spare,  but  he  would  not  take  a 
penny. 

"No,  miss,"  he  said,  with  emphatic  head-shaking. 
"There's  some  shot  left  in  the  locker  yet,  an'  me  an* 

240 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

the  Cap'n  will  'ave  a  reckonin'  w'en  he  comes  'ome. 
If  I'm  short  of  a  pound  or  two  afore  I  get  the  Nancy 
in  commission  this  spring,  I'll  ax  that  gentleman  at  the 
bank  for  it.  P'raps  you'll  write  'im  a  line,  an  'say 
I've  kep'  me  contract." 

She  had  to  be  content  with  that.  Were  it  practicable, 
she  would  have  gone  back  to  England  in  the  same 
steamer.  Here,  in  Las  Palmas,  she  felt  so  utterly 
unbefriended.  Though  thousands  of  miles  nearer 
Africa  than  in  England,  she  seemed  to  be  more  thou- 
sands of  miles  removed  from  the  chance  of  receiving 
a  letter  or  a  cablegram.  True,  she  possessed  a  very 
useful  acquaintance  in  the  commander  of  the  Valiant, 
but  she  could  hardly  expect  one  of  His  Majesty's 
cruisers  to  fly  to  and  fro  in  the  East  Atlantic  in  order 
to  keep  her  conversant  with  developments  in  Nigeria. 
Peter,  however,  undertook  to  call  at  the  Colonial 
Office,  while  she  would  cable  him  her  address  after 
the  lapse  of  a  fortnight.  Then,  if  there  was  any  news 
of  Warden,  he  would  communicate  with  her. 

At  luncheon  she  had  her  first  meeting  with  Mrs. 
Laing  since  the  arrival  of  that  epoch-marking  letter. 
A  special  menu  was  ordered,  and  the  table  was  gay 
with  flowers,  for  the  Baumgartners  dearly  loved  a 
lord,  and  were  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  their 
friendly  relations  with  the  Earl  of  Fairholme. 

Mr.  Baumgartner  looked  worried  and  preoccupied. 
The  coming  of  the  mail  which  meant  so  much  to 
Evelyn  perhaps  had  its  importance  for  him  also.  At 
any  rate,  he  left  the  entertainment  of  his  guests  largely 

241 


The  Message 

to  his  wife,  until  a  sharp  clash  of  wits  rudely  dispelled 
his  reverie. 

Beryl  Baumgartner  was  the  unconscious  agent  that 
brought  about  an  unforeseen  crisis.  Her  restless  eyes 
speedily  caught  the  glint  of  diamonds  on  Evelyn's  left 
hand,  and  she  cried  ecstatically: 

"Oh,  Evelyn,  what  a  lovely  ring!  Where  did  you 
get  it?" 

Each  woman  at  the  table  was  on  the  qui  vive  instantly. 
In  a  place  like  Las  Palmas  the  mere  mention  of  a 
diamond  ring  in  connection  with  a  young  and  pretty 
girl  suggests  that  one  more  infatuated  male  has  volun- 
tarily removed  his  name  from  the  list  of  eligibles. 

Evelyn,  having  stilled  the  volcano  that  raged  over 
night,  might  have  allowed  the  opportunity  to  pass  if 
she  had  not  happened  to  catch  the  mocking  smile  on 
Rosamund's  face  when  the  nature  of  the  ring  became 
self-evident.  That  steeled  her  intent. 

"It  is  my  engagement  ring,"  she  said  quietly. 

"What?"  shrieked  Beryl,  to  whom  this  was  news 
indeed.  "Who  is  he?" 

"You  do  not  know  him,  dear,  but  his  name  is  Cap- 
tain Warden.  He  is  at  present  in  West  Africa,  some- 
where near  the  Benue  River." 

"And  did  he  send  it  to  you  ?" 

"Yes.  I  received  it  only  last  night.  It  would  have 
reached  me  four  months  ago,  had  not  Mrs.  Laing 
stolen  one  of  my  letters  —  perhaps  others  as  well  — 
and  that  naturally  led  to  some  confusion." 

There  was  a  moment  of  stupefied  silence  at  the 
242 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

table.     Everybody  seemed  to  be  stricken  dumb.   Rosa- 
mund, crimson  with  anger,  could  only  mutter: 

"What  insolence!" 

"It  is  an  unpleasant  thing  to  say,  but  it  is  true," 
said  Evelyn,  discussing  her  rival's  transgression  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  tone,  though  she  was  conscious  of 
a  queer  tingling  at  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and  she  hardly 
recognized  the  sound  of  her  own  voice. 

Baumgartner  felt  it  imperative  to  stop  what  threat- 
ened to  develop  into  a  scandal. 

"Miss  Dane,  you  are  making  a  serious  charge  against 
a  lady  of  the  highest  repute,"  he  said,  in  his  best  chair- 
man-of-the-company  style. 

"I  mean  it,  every  word,"  cried  Evelyn,  a  trifle  more 
vehemently.  '"Lord  Fairholme,  am  I  speaking  the 
truth  or  not?"  she  demanded,  suddenly  wheeling 
round  on  the  inoffensive  peer. 

"Really  —  er  —  really "  he  spluttered,  for  once 

too  bewildered  to  grin. 

"Please  tell  Mr.  Baumgartner  what  happened  in 
the  hall  at  Lochmerig  when  Mrs.  Laing  asked  the 
postman  to  give  her  a  letter  addressed  to  Captain 
Arthur  Warden,  at  Ostend.  You  were  present.  It 
was  my  letter  she  obtained.  Perhaps  she  has  it  yet  if 
her  boxes  were  searched." 

Here  was  no  timid  girl  striving  vainly  to  bolster  up 
a  false  accusation,  but  a  fiery  young  goddess  impeaching 
an  erring  mortal.  The  atmosphere  was  electrical; 
Beryl  Baumgartner  said  afterwards  that  she  felt  pins 
and  needles  attacking  her  at  all  points! 

243 


"I'm  awfully  sony,  Miss  Dane,  but  I  gave  very 
little  attention  to  the  incident,"  said  Fairliolme,  partly 
recovering  himself. 

"But  you  remembered  Captain  Warden's  name  last 
night?  Was  it  not  at  Lochmerig  that  you  heard  it, 
and  from  Mrs.  Laing?" 

"Well  —  yes,  but,  you  know,  Mrs.  Laing  might  have 
written  to  him." 

"She  did,  after  obtaining  the  address  from  my  letter 
and  reading  what  I  wrote." 

Then  she  turned  on  Rosamund  with  magnificent 
disdain. 

"Shall  I  give  you  a  copy  of  your  letter?  Captain 
Warden  has  sent  it  to  me." 

Sheer  fury  enabled  Rosamund  to  regain  her  self- 
control. 

"Your  foolish  attack  on  me  is  disproved  out  of 
your  own  mouth,"  she  said,  striving  desperately  to 
speak  with  her  accustomed  nonchalance.  "Captain 
Warden  has  not  written  to  you  since  I  saw  him  in 
London.  He  is  in  Africa,  it  is  true,  but  he  has  never 
been  heard  of  after  going  ashore  at  Rabat  fully  three 
months  ago.  How  can  you  pretend  that  you  received 
a  letter  from  him  last  night?  My  authority  is  an 
Under  Secretary  of  State.  Pray,  who  is  yours?" 

Under  other  conditions,  Evelyn  might  have  been 
warned  by  the  imperious  command  to  "hold  her 
tongue"  that  Baumgartner  telegraphed  to  his  wife 
when  that  good  lady  was  minded  to  interfere.  But 
no  consideration  would  stop  her  now.  The  memory 

244 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

of  all  she  had  suffered  through  the  machinations  of  one 
evilly  disposed  woman  upset  her  calm  judgment.  In 
other  respects,  she  acted  with  a  restraint  that  was 
worthy  of  a  first-rate  actress;  people  at  the  next  table 
might  have  thought  she  was  discussing  the  weather. 
Taking  Warden's  letter  from  her  pocket,  she  handed 
it  to  Lord  Fairholme. 

"I  cited  you  as  a  witness,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
now  act  as  a  judge?  Read  that,  and  tell  my  friends 
which  of  us  two  is  speaking  truly." 

Despite  his  self-supposed  shortcomings,  Fairholme 
was  a  gentleman.  Instinctively  be  believed  Evelyn, 
but  he  shrank  from  the  duty  she  entrusted  to  him. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  he  bleated,  "hasn't  this  thing  gone  a 
bit  too  far  already  ?  Is  it  worth  all  the  beastly  fuss  ? 
There  may  be  a  mistake  somewhere,  you  know.  I'm 
sure,  Miss  Dane,  nobody  doubts  your  statement  where 
this  lucky  chap  Warden  is  concerned,  an',  on  the  other 
hand,  don't  you  know,  Mrs.  Laing  may  have  a  per- 
fectly fair  explanation  of  the  other  business.  So  let 
it  go  at  that,  eh,  what?" 

"May  I  act  as  arbitrator?"  said  Baumgartner.  "If 
I  glance  through  your  letter,  Miss  Dane,  I  may  discover 
a  means  of  settlement." 

Something  in  his  tone,  some  hint  of  a  crafty  purpose 
behind  the  smooth-spoken  words,  beat  through  the 
haze  of  wrath  and  grief  that  clouded  Evelyn's  mind. 
She  could  trust  Fairholme  with  her  lover's  letter,  but 
not  Baumgartner.  To  reveal  to  him  what  Warden 
had  said  about  Mrs.  Laing's  extraordinarily  accurate 

245 


The  Message 

knowledge  of  proceedings  in  the  Solent  and  affairs  in 
Nigeria  would  be  tantamount  to  betraying  her  lover's 
faith. 

With  splendid  calmness  she  took  the  letter  from  the 
table  and  replaced  it  in  her  pocket. 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Baumgartner,"  she  said,  "if 
Lord  Fairholme  declines  to  help  me,  nobody  else  can 
take  his  place.  I  appealed  to  him  because  he  is  aware 
that  Mrs.  Laing  induced  your  groom  to  unlock  the 
post-box  and  hand  her  my  letter.  The  proof  of  my 
words  lies  here.  It  is  for  him  to  say  whether  or  not 
he  is  satisfied  he  saw  Mrs.  Laing  commit  a  theft." 

Fairholme  shook  his  head.  He  was  not  lacking  in 
pluck,  and  his  artificial  humor  was  only  the  veneer  of 
an  honest  nature,  but  he  surprised  a  look  in  Rosa- 
mund's eyes  that  startled  him.  She  was  pale  now, 
ashen  pale.  She  uttered  no  word,  but  continued  to 
glower  at  Evelyn  with  a  suppressed  malevolence  that 
was  more  threatening  than  the  mere  rage  of  a  detected 
trickster. 

His  lordship  evidently  thought  it  high  time  Baum- 
gartner or  his  wife  exercised  their  authority. 

"Don't  you  think  this  matter  has  gone  quite  far 
enough?"  he  asked,  glancing  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  avoiding  the  eyes  of  either  Evelyn  or  Mrs. 
Laing. 

"Yes,"  said  Baumgartner,  speaking  with  a  pom- 
posity that  contrasted  sharply  with  his  prompt  offer  to 
supplant  Fairholme  as  judge.  "This  absurd  dispute 
about  a  purely  private  affair  must  end  at  once.  I  and 

246 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

my  family  are  going  to  Europe  by  the  next  mail 
steamer " 

"Isadore!"  gasped  his  wife. 

"Father,  you  can't  mean  it!"  cried  Beryl,  who,  at 
the  lowest  calculation,  had  made  arrangements  for  a 
good  three  weeks'  further  frivolity  at  Las  Palmas. 

"Unfortunately,  I  am  quite  in  earnest." 

The  financier  looked  it.  Despite  his  magisterial  air, 
his  puffy  face  was  drawn  and  haggard,  and  he  had  the 
aspect  of  a  man  who  needed  rest  and  sleep. 

"You  will  accompany  us,  of  course,  Miss  Dane," 
he  went  on,  speaking  slowly,  as  though  he  were  groping 
for  the  best  way  out  of  a  difficulty.  "Your  quarrel 
with  Mrs.  Laing  can  be  much  more  easily  adjusted  in 
England  than  here.  I  hope,  therefore,  we  shall  be 
spared  further  bickering  during  our  brief  stay  in  the 
Canaries." 

"But,  father  dear,"  put  in  his  daughter,  "you  said 
we  were  going  home  on  the  yacht,  and  calling  at 
Gibraltar  and  Algiers." 

"I  have  changed  my  plans,"  he  retorted  curtly,  and 
that  was  all  he  would  say  on  the  subject. 

Evelyn  left  the  table  at  the  earliest  moment.  When 
too  late,  she  regretted  the  impulse  that  led  her  to  declare 
open  war  against  Mrs.  Laing.  But  it  was  done  now. 
Those  words  "theft"  and  "steal"  were  irrevocable. 
She  had  retreated  to  a  nook  in  the  garden  where  a 
dense  clump  of  tropical  trees  and  shrubs  gave  shelter 
from  the  sun,  and  was  trying  to  discover  if  she  had 
imperilled  the  success  of  Warden's  mission  by  any 

247 


The  Message 

unguarded   phrase,   when   Lord   Fairholme   came    to 
her. 

"May  I  sit  down  here  a  few  minutes?"  he  asked. 
"I  want  to  try  to  understand  things." 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  test  your  lordship's  capacity 
so  greatly,"  she  said.  She  had  not  yet  forgiven  him 
for  not  taking  her  part.  She  was  young;  her  world 
was  tumbling  about  her  ears;  she  believed  that  every- 
body ought  to  stand  aghast  at  Rosamund's  wickedness. 
"Oh,  come  now,  that's  a  bit  severe,  isn't  it  ?"  grinned 
Fairholme.  "You  don't  make  allowances  for  the 
ruffled  feelin's  of  a  poor  fellow  who  has  just  had  his 

image  battered " 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  what  you  are  talking  about  ?" 
"Eh  —  beg  pardon,  I  meant  idol  shattered.     Silly 
mistake,  eh,  what?" 

Evelyn's  lips  relaxed  in  a  smile.  There  was  no 
resisting  "Billy"  when  (in  his  own  phrase)  he  was 
goin'  strong. 

"I  fear  you  all  thought  me  very  rude,"  she  said, 

with  a  pathetic  little  gesture  of  helplessness.     "But 

what  was  I  to  do  ?  —  listen  in  silence  to  fresh  insults  ?" 

"I  think  you  did  the  only  possible  thing." 

"Then  why  did  you  refuse  to  bear  out  my  statement  ?" 

"There  were  reasons.     May  I  see  that  letter  now?" 

"Have  you  come  of  your  own  accord  ?"  she  asked. 

Evelyn  fighting  for  the  man  she  loved  was  a  very 

different  girl  from  the  proud,  disdainful  Evelyn  who, 

twenty-four  hours  earlier,  would  have  endured  almost 

any   infliction   rather  than   flout  her  adversary  in  a 

248 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

public  dining-room.  She  credited  Rosamund  with  the 
adoption  of  any  petty  device  to  gain  her  ends,  and  felt 
that  Fairholme  was  just  the  man  to  be  used  as  a  stalk- 
ing-horse. 

"No,"  he  said,  "or  rather,  yes  —  and  no.  I  am 
anxious  to  know  the  truth,  but  Baumgartner  suggested 
that  I  ought  to  accept  your  offer  of  reading  the  evidence. 
Don't  you  see,  he  has  to  consider  the  future  a  bit." 

"In  what  way?" 

"Well,  if  Mrs.  Laing  stole  a  letter  in  his  house,  she 
—  it's  a  jolly  hard  thing  to  say  —  but  she  must  be 
warned  off." 

Baumgartner  as  a  guardian  of  morals  was  a  new 
conception.  Evelyn  felt  that  a  more  powerful  foe 
than  Rosamund  was  in  the  field.  Her  unimportant 
romance  had  suddenly  widened  out  into  the  world- 
domain  of  politics.  She  must  decide  quickly  and 
decide  right.  In  that  vital  moment  she  realized  that 
her  postscript  to  the  Lochmerig  letter  might  have 
consequences  far  beyond  their  effect  on  Warden's 
fortunes  and  her  own. 

"Lord  Fairholme,"  she  said,  turning  so  that  she 
could  watch  the  slightest  change  in  the  expression  of 
his  face,  "does  Mr.  Baumgartner  strike  you  as  a  man 
who  would  go  out  of  his  way  to  interfere  in  a  dispute 
between  two  women  ? " 

"Not  unless  there  was  money  in  it,"  said  Fairholme 
cheerfully. 

"Then  why  is  he  showing  such  interest  now  in  a 
matter  which  he  deliberately  closed  at  luncheon  ?  " 

249 


The  Message 

"I  gave  you  his  explanation.  Even  Baumgartner 
likes  to  associate  with  people  of  good  character." 

"No,  that  is  not  the  reason.  Mr.  Baumgartner  is 
engaged  at  this  moment  in  a  plot  against  British  do- 
minion in  West  Africa.  You  see  that  cruiser  in  the 
harbor?  Well,  she  is  here  to  watch  the  Satis  Souci. 
You  yourself  heard  to-day  that  our  party  is  going  to 
Europe  by  the  mail  steamer.  Why,  when  the  Sans 
Souci  is  at  our  disposal  ?  I  will  tell  you.  The  British 
authorities  believe  that  the  yacht  will  help,  or  further 
in  some  way,  a  native  rising  in  Southern  Nigeria.  Now, 
the  letter  in  my  possession,  read  by  any  one  who  could 
extract  its  inner  meaning,  would  yield  a  valuable  clue 
to  the  amount  of  information  at  the  disposal  of  the 
home  government.  If  you,  without  knowing  this, 
answered  Mr.  Baumgartner's  questions  as  to  its  con- 
tents, you  would  be  doing  the  gravest  injury  to  Great 
Britain." 

"By  gad!"  exclaimed  Fairholme. 

"You  can  easily  assure  yourself  that  I  am  not  exag- 
gerating the  facts.  Here  is  the  letter.  Read  it,  and 
remember  what  I  have  told  you." 

Fairholme  pursed  his  lips  and  bent  his  brows  in 
deep  mental  effort.  He  held  the  letter  in  his  hand 
unopened  during  this  unusual  and  seemingly  painful 
process.  Then  he  gave  it  back  to  Evelyn. 

"No,  Miss  Dane,"  he  said  emphatically.  "I'm  far 
too  candid  an  ass  to  be  laden  with  state  secrets.  Now, 
if  you  wouldn't  mind  just  pickin'  out  the  bits  that 
refer  to  Mrs.  Laing,  an'  skippin'  all  the  political  part, 

250 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

I'll  be  able  to  bounce  old  Baumgartner  for  all  he's 
worth." 

"But  I  cannot.  It  is  the  political  part  which  proves 
that  my  letter  was  stolen." 

"Same  thing!  Change  the  names.  Turn  West 
Africa  into  Newmarket,  an'  call  the  Emperor  Lord 
Rosebery." 

"The  Emperor,"  said  Evelyn,  surprised  at  Fair- 
holme's  chance  shot. 

"He's  in  it,  I  guess.  He  has  his  finger  in  every  pie, 
an'  some  of  'em  have  bin  jolly  hot.  Now,  go  ahead. 
If  it's  at  all  awkward,  leave  me  to  fill  in  a  bit  about  the 
Ditch  Mile  an'  the  Epsom  gradients  that  will  bam- 
boozle Baumgartner." 

Evelyn  did  her  best.  Fairholme  was  delighted  with 
Warden's  description  of  the  baccarat  and  roulette 
incidents,  but  his  face  lengthened  when  he  heard 
Rosamund's  allusions  to  himself.  Once,  Evelyn  forgot 
his  stipulation,  and  spoke  of  the  "men  of  Oku." 

"Oku,"  broke  in  Fairholme,  "where  is  that?" 

"It  is  a  savage  native  state  in  West  Africa.  That  is 
the  one  name  you  must  not  remember,  Lord  Fair- 
holme." 

He  did  not  interrupt  again  till  she  had  finished 
reading.  Then  she  told  him  how  Peter  Evans  had 
brought  her  the  ring  and  the  letter;  and,  finding  him 
sympathetic,  she  explained  the  extraordinary  chance 
that  led  to  Warden's  capture  by  a  Mohammedan 
fanatic  at  Rabat. 

"Funny  thing!"  he  said,  when  she  had  made  an 
251 


The  Message 

end.     "That    chap    Figuero    joined    my    steamer   at 
Lisbon." 

"He  is  not  here?"  cried  Evelyn,  genuinely  startled, 
for  she  feared  Figuero. 

"Yes,  he  is.  I  fancy  he's  on  board  the  Sans  Souci. 
I  didn't  speak  to  him;  I  have  a  notion  that  he  didn't 
recognize  me  under  my  new  name.  We  also  picked 
up  a  number  of  German  officers  at  the  same  port,  but 
they  left  us  at  Funchal,  where  another  ship  took  them 
on  to  the  Cameroons.  That  is  German  West  Africa, 
isn't  it?" 

"I  believe  so.  My  geographical  knowledge  of  this 
part  of  the  world  is  of  the  vaguest.  It  dates  chiefly 
from  last  night." 

"When  the  naval  Johnny  was  showing  you  the  map, 
I  suppose?" 

"But  how  do  you  know  that?"  she  demanded,  and 
another  wave  of  surprise  flooded  her  face  with  color. 

"  Mrs.  Laing  and  I  watched  you  for  quite  a  time  — 
the  watchin'  was   involuntary  on  my  part,  but  she 
wouldn't  come  away  from  the  veranda,  an'  now  I 
know  why.     You  will  observe,  Miss  Dane,  that  I  have 
bin  the  goat  all  through  the  proceedin's." 

"I  can  hardly  say  that." 

"No,  you  wouldn't  But  it's  true.  The  only  bit 
of  luck  I've  had  is  that  I  am  saved  the  painful  necessity 
of  bein'  refused  as  a  husband  by  Mrs.  Laing.  I  came 
here  to  ask  her  to  marry  me." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  -  "  began  Evelyn,  but  Fair- 
hohne's  cackling  laugh  checked  her. 

252 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

"  Why  sorry  ?  You've  done  me  a  good  turn,  twice 
over,  an'  if  I  can  do  you  one,  just  ask.  In  the  first 
place,  she  would  probably  have  said  'No,'  and  in  the 
second,  where  should  I  have  been  if  she  said  'Yes.' 
In  the  soup,  eh,  what?" 

Lord  Fairholme  seemed  to  pride  himself  on  his 
narrow  escape,  and  gave  Evelyn  the  credit  of  rescuing 
him.  She  protested  that  if  she  had  known  he  was 
really  bent  on  marrying  Mrs.  Laing  she  would  neither 
have  attacked  the  latter  in  his  presence  nor  called  on 
him  to  bear  out  her  statements.  But  he  refused  to 
admit  that  she  had  conferred  other  than  a  favor  on 
him,  and  repeated  his  desire  to  serve  her  if  the  oppor- 
tunity offered.  It  came  quickly. 

That  night,  when  Evelyn  was  sound  asleep,  her 
room  was  entered  and  Warden's  letter  taken.  It  lay 
with  the  ring  and  some  other  trinkets  on  a  dressing- 
table.  The  door  was  locked  and  bolted,  but  the 
window  was  wide  open  to  admit  the  sea  breeze,  and, 
although  the  room  was  on  the  third  floor,  and  therefore 
some  forty  feet  or  more  above  the  ground  level,  it  was 
impossible  that  the  thief  could  have  entered  it  except 
through  the  window.  That  the  letter  alone  was  the 
objective  was  shown  by  the  fact  that  the  exceedingly 
valuable  ring  was  left  untouched.  There  was  almost 
a  hint  of  malicious  humor  in  the  discrimination  exer- 
cised. An  ordinary  criminal,  though  bribed  to  pro- 
cure a  document  of  great  importance  to  some  other 
person,  would  certainly  have  made  away  with  any 
jewelry  that  was  lying  handy.  In  this  instance,  there 

253 


The  Message 

seemed  to  be  an  unspoken  warning  to  the  girl  that  she 
was  powerless  in  the  toils  that  surrounded  her. 

At  first,  she  suspected  Rosamund  of  complicity  in 
this  new  theft,  but  when  she  asked  herself  who  had 
most  to  gain  from  the  perusal  of  the  letter,  suspicion 
pointed,  not  to  Rosamund,  who  could  guess  its  con- 
tents with  fair  accuracy,  but  to  Baumgartner  and  his 
associates,  who  were  evidently  more  afraid  of  one  man 
than  of  the  armed  might  of  Britain. 

In  the  height  of  her  distress  her  employer  came  to  her. 

"  We  have  decided  to  return  by  the  Portuguese  mail 
from  Madeira,"  he  said,  "and  in  order  to  catch  the 
next  steamer  we  shall  sail  in  the  Sans  Souci  to-night. 
Would  it  be  convenient  for  you  to  go  aboard  the  yacht 
this  afternoon?" 

"But  what  action  am  I  to  take  with  regard  to  my 
stolen  letter?"  she  demanded.  "You  heard  what  I 
said  to  Mrs.  Laing.  That  letter  is  my  evidence  against 
her." 

"  It  may  have  blown  out  of  your  window.  There  is 
generally  a  strong  breeze  just  before  dawn.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  better  lost.  Such  disputes  are  useless." 

"  But  it  was  of  the  utmost  importance  in  other  ways." 

"Young  ladies'  love-letters  always  are,"  he  gurgled 
with  forced  laughter.  "  Still,  if  it  really  has  gone,  you 
can  hardly  propose  to  remain  in  Las  Palmas  on  the 
off  chance  that  it  may  be  recovered." 

She  felt  that  she  was  trapped,  but  for  what  purpose 
it  was  hard  to  imagine.  Lord  Fairholme  had  told  her 
already  that  Baumgartner  was  very  much  annoyed 

254 


with  him  for  failing  to  remember  what  Warden  had  writ- 
ten, and  it  was  now  beyond  doubt  that  the  Sans  Souci's 
voyage  to  Funchal  was  a  blind  for  some  ulterior  object. 

In  her  dilemma,  she  thought  of  Mortimer.  When 
Baumgartner  went  away,  she  hurried  out  of  the  hotel 
and  drove  straight  to  the  harbor.  A  boat  brought  her 
to  the  Valiant;  the  commander  himself  met  her  at  the 
gangway,  and  escorted  her  to  his  cabin. 

"Sorry  I  couldn't  call  last  evening  Miss  Dane,"  he 
said,  "but  I  was  detained  on  board  unexpectedly. 
Things  are  happening,  I  hear." 

"Yes.  Figuero  is  here,  and  we  leave  on  the  yacht 
for  Funchal  to-night." 

He  smiled. 

"  Is  that  the  dodge  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Of  course,  I 
was  posted  in  the  movements  of  the  Portuguese  and 
his  friends,  but  the  trip  to  Madeira  is  clever.  What 
has  caused  the  change  of  programme  ?  " 

She  told  him,  and  he  banged  a  clenched  fist  em- 
phatically on  a  table  which  a  steward  had  just  ar- 
ranged for  tea. 

"  For  once,  I  can  find  it  in  my  heart  to  wish  you  were 
a  man,"  he  cried.  "A  steamer  starts  for  Lagos  within 
two  hours,  and  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  if  the  Nigeria 
administration  heard  your  story  from  your  own  lips. 
Of  course,  I  can  write,  but  it  is  difficult  to  put  on  paper 
one's  guesses  and  surmises  at  the  trickery  that  is  going 
on." 

The  words  were  scarcely  uttered  ere  a  wild  notion 
leaped  into  Evelyn's  brain.  Why  should  she  not  go 

255 


Tlie  Message 

to  Lagos  ?  She  might  be  able  to  clear  away  some  of 
the  doubts  and  misgivings  that  must  have  gathered 
around  Warden's  name.  Above  all  else,  if  there  was 
news  of  him,  it  would  surely  reach  the  officials  there 
long  before  it  became  known  in  England. 

"If  I  were  a  man,"  she  said  tremulously,  "would 
you  pay  my  passage  on  that  ship?" 

"Of  course.  You  would  be  traveling  on  Govern- 
ment service." 

"Then  I  shall  go.  Please  arrange  matters  for  me» 
and  send  some  one  to  take  me  on  board." 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  he  cried. 

"Yes." 

"By  Jove,  Miss  Dane,  you  astonish  me  more  each 
time  I  see  you.  But  how  about  the  Baumgartners  ? " 

"I  shall  simply  write  a  note  resigning  my  situation. 
It  is  a  mere  question  of  doing  that  to-day  or  three 
weeks  hence.  But  I  shall  not  tell  them  why  I  am 
leaving  their  service  so  suddenly." 

"Baumgartner  will  find  out.  Unless  I  am  much 
mistaken,  it  will  worry  him.  Now,  you  are  sure  you 
intend  to  take  this  trip?" 

"Quite  certain." 

"Very  well.  I  shall  give  myself  the  pleasure  of 
calling  for  you  at  three  o'clock." 

Evelyn  packed  her  boxes  as  speedily  as  possible. 
Counting  her  money,  she  found  she  had  only  twenty- 
five  pounds.  But  there  was  that  new  treasure,  the 
ring.  How  better  could  she  use  it  than  in  furthering 
the  interests  of  the  man  she  loved  ?  She  wondered  if 

256 


Evelyn  Enters  the  Fray 

Lord  Fairholme  would  lend  her  fifty  pounds  on  its 
security?  A  note  brought  him  to  her  room,  and  she 
explained  briefly  that  she  meant  to  visit  Lagos,  and 
might  need  more  funds  than  she  had  at  her  command. 

"Well,  that  beats  the  band,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Laing 
is  going  there  too." 

"Not  on  to-day's  steamer?"  she  protested,  for  it 
seemed  that  an  unkind  fate  was  conspiring  against  her. 

"Sure  thing!     Heard  her  tellin'  Beryl  an  hour  ago." 

Though  Evelyn  wished  heartily  that  her  rival  had 
chosen  any  other  route  of  the  many  which  lead  from 
Las  Palmas,  her  resolution  remained  unaltered.  But 
there  was  another  thrill  in  store  for  her. 

"Tell  you  what,  Miss  Dane,"  said  Fairholme,  "I 
don't  think  you  ought  to  tackle  an  expedition  of  this, 
sort  single-handed.  You  may  want  some  one  to  pull 
you  out  of  a  tight  place  —  what  price  me  as  a  puller- 
out  ?  I'm  a  pretty  useless  sort  of  chap  in  most  things, 
but  there  is  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  try  to  do  my 
country  a  good  turn  once  in  a  way.  Let  me  go  with 
you,  and  then  you'll  have  no  need  to  worry  about  coin." 

"You  are  really  very  kind,"  she  faltered,  "but  — 
but- 

"You  are  afraid  of  Mrs.  Laing  again,"  he  grinned. 
"Don't  worry  yourself  about  her,  dear  girl.  Not  even 
Mrs.  Grundy  can  growl  at  me  for  bein'  your  fellow- 
passenger.  I'm  mixed  up  in  this  business,  an',  by 
Jove,  I  mean  to  see  it  through.  Look  here,  can't  you 
adopt  me  as  a  sort  of  elder  brother,  an'  make  it  'Billy' 
an'  'Evelyn,'  an'  that  sort  of  thing  —  eh,  what?" 

257 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    DRUMS   OP   OKU 

EVELYX,  ferried  across  the  harbor  by  a  boat's  crew 
from  the  warship,  boarded  the  Estremadura  in  almost 
regal  state.  The  vessel's  cabin  accommodation  was 
poor,  but  the  English  girl  was  given  of  its  best.  Not 
every  day  does  a  small  West  African  trader  receive  a 
passenger  under  the  escort  of  a  peer  of  the  realm  and 
a  Captain  in  the  Royal  Navy.  It  was  an  interesting 
moment  when  Rosamund  Laing,  accompanied  by 
Figuero,  came  alongside.  The  Portuguese  made  off 
at  once,  but  the  lady,  when  it  was  too  late  to  retreat, 
affected  a  blank  indifference  to  Evelyn's  presence  that 
showed  how  conscious  she  was  of  it.  She  seldom 
appeared  on  deck,  ate  each  meal  in  the  seclusion  of 
her  cabin,  and  spoke  no  word,  even  to  Lord  Fairholme. 
On  arriving  at  Lagos  she  hurried  from  the  ship,  and 
Evelyn  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  watched  her 
enemy  go  ashore. 

She  did  not  carry  her  dislike  of  Mrs.  Laing  to  the 
point  of  imagining  her  to  be  in  active  co-operation 
with  the  plotters  against  British  supremacy  in  that 
quarter  of  the  world.  It  was  far  more  probable  that  a 
rich  woman  who  drew  some  part  of  her  revenues  from 

258 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

factories  on  the  coast  might  be  combining  business 
with  the  desire  to  obtain  news  of  Warden  at  first  hand. 
At  any  rate,  the  girl  fondly  hoped  they  might  never 
meet  again,  and  she  trusted  to  the  strength  of  her  own 
story,  supplemented  by  a  letter  from  Captain  Mor- 
timer to  the  Governor,  to  place  her  beyond  the  reach 
of  misrepresentation. 

But  her  troubles,  instead  of  diminishing,  became 
even  more  pronounced  when  she  called  at  Government 
House.  Both  she  and  Lord  Fairholme  were  entirely 
ignorant  of  local  conditions.  Neither  of  them  knew 
that  Lagos,  though  the  chief  West  African  port,  and 
practically  the  only  safe  harbor  on  the  Guinea  Coast, 
was  the  capital  of  an  administration  quite  separate 
from  that  of  North  and  of  South  Nigeria.  To  reach 
Old  Calabar,  the  headquarters  of  Warden's  service, 
they  must  take  a  long  journey  down  the  coast  and 
penetrate  some  forty  miles  into  the  Niger  delta.  Cap- 
tain Mortimer,  in  all  probability,  thought  she  was 
aware  of  this  vital  distinction,  but,  at  the  outset,  Evelyn 
almost  felt  that  she  had  undertaken  a  useless  task. 

Her  manifest  distress  at  an  unpleasing  discovery 
won  her  the  sympathy  of  the  deputy  Governor  of  Lagos, 
his  chief  having  crossed  from  the  island  to  the  main- 
land only  the  day  before.  But  sympathy  could  not 
altogether  cloak  a  skepticism  that  was  galling  in  the 
extreme.  He  was  fully  acquainted  with  the  position 
of  affairs  in  the  sister  protectorate,  he  said.  He  ap- 
preciated Captain  Mortimer's  motives  in  wishing  to 
acquaint  the  Government  of  Nigeria  with  certain 

259 


curious  circumstances  which  might  or  might  not  be 
connected  with  tribal  uneasiness  in  the  Bcnue  River 
districts,  but  the  fact  remained  that  all  was  quiet  now 
in  that  region. 

"Owing  to  Captain  Warden's  unfortunate  disap- 
pearance," he  went  on,  "another  commissioner  visited 
Oku.  He  found  matters  there  in  a  fairly  settled  state. 
The  people  were  cultivating  their  lands  with  greater 
assiduity  than  such  semi-cannibals  usually  display, 
and  this  is  a  sure  sign  of  content  in  a  West  African 
community.  Indeed,  Captain  Forbes  is  now  about  to 
return  to  headquarters.  A  few  companies  of  Hausa 
constabulary,  who  were  moved  to  more  convenient 
centers  in  case  a  strong  column  was  required  for  an 
expedition  to  the  Bcnue,  are  going  back  to  their  original 
cantonments.  The  incident  is  ended." 

The  official  tone  was  blandly  disconcerting.  Evelyn 
was  aware  that  the  deputy  Governor  looked  on  her 
somewhat  in  the  light  of  a  runaway  schoolgirl,  who  had 
no  reason  whatever  to  bother  her  pretty  head  about 
the  business  of  a  prosperous  and  thriving  colony. 

"You  seem  to  imply  that  the  Home  authorities 
acted  in  a  panic,"  she  said,  wondering  if  it  were  really 
true  that  Warden  and  the  men  he  had  seen  in  London 
were  laboring  under  a  delusion. 

"No.  They  misread  the  motives  of  the  Nigeria 
administration  in  curtailing  Captain  Warden's  fur- 
lough—  that  is  all.  There  undoubtedly  were  rumors 
of  some  border  disturbances.  The  people  in  that 
region  hinted  that  the  Oku  men  were  arranging  what 

260 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

they  term  a  Long  Ju-ju.  There  was  also  a  trading 
activity  on  the  part  of  our  neighbors  that  gave  rise  to 
unpleasant  suspicions.  To  be  forewarned  is  to  be 
forearmed,  and  His  Excellency  the  Governor  regarded 
Captain  Warden  as  the  man  who  could  best  deal  with 
and  remove  any  causes  of  discontent.  Within  the  last 
two  months,  however,  all  unfavorable  symptoms  have 
vanished,  and  Oku  is  now  as  quiet  as  Old  Calabar,  or 
Lagos  itself." 

"I  am  glad  of  it,"  she  said  earnestly.  "It  is  far 
from  my  wish  to  figure  as  a  messenger  of  strife.  May 
I  revert  to  a  more  personal  matter?  If  Captain 
Warden  has  succeeded  in  crossing  the  Sahara,  when 
and  where  may  I  reasonably  expect  to  hear  of  him?" 

The  deputy  Governor  stroked  his  chin.  He  was  a 
kind-hearted  man,  and  circumstances  had  prepared 
him  for  that  question. 

"It  is  hard  to  say,"  he  answered,  "Assuming  he 
reaches  Timbuktu  in  safety,  he  can  follow  that  course 
of  the  Upper  Niger,  through  what  is  known  as  the 
Dahomey  hinterland,  until  he  arrives  at  Ilo,  the  first 
town  in  the  British  sphere  of  influence  in  that  direction. 
Thence  to  the  sea,  at  this  season,  the  river  is  navigable. 
If  he  makes  for  Lagos  —  having  been  ordered  here  in 
the  first  instance  —  he  might  strike  overland  from 
Jebbu  to  the  railhead  at  Ibadan,  but  if  he  sticks  to  the 
river  and  goes  to  his  own  headquarters,  by  remaining 
here  you  should  obtain  telegraphic  information  of  his 
arrival  at  a  town  called  Lokoja,  situated  at  the  junction 
of  the  Niger  and  the  Benue." 

261 


The  Message 

He  paused.  His  brief  review  "conveyed  no  hint  to 
his  hearer  of  the  tremendous  difficulties  any  man  must 
overcome  ere  he  reached  the  comparative  civilization 
of  the  telegraph,  and  he  flinched  from  the  task  of 
enlightening  her. 

"Is  it  quite  certain,"  he  asked,  "that  Captain 
Warden  went  ashore  at  Rabat?" 

The  astonishment  in  Evelyn's  face  was  almost  suffi- 
cient answer. 

"Unless  every  one  in  some  Government  department 
in  London  has  gone  mad,  it  is  quite  certain,"  she  cried. 
"Did  not  an  officer  from  Nigeria  go  to  meet  him  at 
Cape  Coast  Castle,  and  is  it  not  evident  that  he  went 
to  Hassan's  Tower  to  obtain  the  ruby  I  have  told  you 
of?" 

The  official  smiled.  He  had  effectually  distracted 
her  thoughts  from  the  far  more  embarrassing  topic  of 
Warden's  chances  of  reaching  Nigeria  alive. 

"One  learns  to  distrust  circumstantial  evidence,  Miss 
Dane.  Have  you  heard  that  the  passenger  on  the 
Water  Witch  was  known  as  Mr.  Alfred  Williams? 
Yes  ?  Well,  we  do  not  know  Captain  Warden.  We 
have  no  means  here  of  identifying  the  baggage  landed 
by  the  captain  of  the  Water  Witch  when  he  reported 
the  Rabat  incident.  Could  you  recognize  any  of 
Captain  Warden's  belongings?" 

"No,"  said  Evelyn  blankly  --  "that  is,  I  fear 
not." 

"You  mentioned  a  gourd.  I  have  not  seen  the 
thing  myself,  but  one  of  my  assistants  says  that  a  most 

262 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

remarkable  object  of  that  nature  was  found  in  one  of 
the  missing  man's  boxes." 

"Ah,  I  should  know  that  anywhere,"  and  she  shud- 
dered at  the  recollection  of  the  evil  face  whose  appear- 
ance had  so  strangely  synchronized  with  the  stormy 
events  of  her  recent  life. 

"Well,  have  you  any  objection  to  examining  the 
gourd  now  ?  If  it  is  the  undoubted  article  you  picked 
up  in  the  Solent,  it  goes  far  to  prove  that  Captain 
Warden  did  really  take  passage  on  the  Water  Witch." 

"I  cannot  imagine  how  you  can  think  otherwise," 
she  declared.  "Of  course  it  was  he!" 

"There  is  no  harm  in  making  sure,"  he  said,  having 
already  decided  to  entrust  to  his  wife  the  trying  duty 
of  making  known  to  this  charming  girl  the  almost 
certain  fact  that  her  lover  was  long  since  dead. 

The  calabash  was  brought  and  taken  from  its  canvas 
wrapper.  Oddly  enough,  mildew  had  formed  on  its 
bright  lacquer,  and  the  sheen  of  the  mosaic  eyes  was 
dulled.  It  had  lost  some  of  its  artistic  power,  and  was 
far  from  being  the  terrifying  creation  that  scared  her 
so  badly  when  first  she  saw  it  on  the  deck  of  the 
Nancy. 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  she  said.  "You  see,  this  crown 
is  really  a  lid,  and  the  piece  of  vellum,  or  parchment, 
was  hidden  inside.  It  is  not  there  now,  yet  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  Captain  Warden  kept  them  both  to- 
gether." 

The  servant  who  had  brought  the  calabash  was  sent 
back  to  search  for  the  tattooed  skin.  He  soon  returned 

263 


The  Message 

with  it,  and  the  deputy  Governor  examined  the  two 
curios  with  manifest  interest. 

"It  is  not  native  work,"  he  said.  "I  have  never 
seen  anything  just  like  it,  even  in  museums  at  home." 

Moved  by  an  impulse  which  she  could  never  after- 
wards explain,  Evelyn  asked  if  both  the  gourd  and 
the  parchment  might  be  given  to  her. 

"They  are  really  mine,"  she  explained  sadly.  " Cap- 
tain Warden  asked  me  to  accept  the  carved  head,  as  it 
was  I  who  discovered  it.  But  I  was  afraid  of  it  then. 
Now,  I  should  be  pleased  to  have  it  in  my  possession. 
It  brought  us  together  in  the  first  instance.  Perhaps 
it  may  do  the  same  thing  a  second  time." 

"Nigeria  is  the  home  of  the  ju-ju  — may  this  fetish 
prove  a  lucky  one!"  said  the  official  gravely.  "Take 
it,  by  all  means,  Miss  Dane,  but  let  no  native  see  it,  or 
you  will  attract  a  notoriety  that  I  am  sure  you  would 
dislike.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  telegraph  to  Old  Calabar 
asking  for  news,  though  I  should  certainly  have  heard 
if  Warden  had  turned  up  already." 

That  same  afternoon  the  deputy  Governor's  wife 
called  on  Evelyn,  and  invited  her  to  come  and  stay  at 
her  house,  urging  that  she  would  find  residence  in  a 
private  family  vastly  preferable  to  the  hotel  in  which 
she  had  passed  the  previous  night.  For  fully  three 
weeks  she  lived  with  this  most  friendly  and  hospitable 
lady.  By  degrees,  as  they  became  more  intimate,  her 
new  acquaintance  gathered  the  threads  of  the  unusual 
story  in  which  the  girl  figured  so  prominently.  Simi- 
larly, as  Evelyn  gained  more  knowledge  of  African 

264 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

affairs,  she  could  not  help  but  discover  that  it  would 
be  nothing  less  than  a  miracle  if  Warden  ever  reached 
Nigeria.  The  difficulties  facing  even  a  well-equipped 
expedition  on  the  desert  route  were  so  great  that  all 
but  the  most  enthusiastic  explorers  shrank  from  them. 
How,  then,  could  one  white  man,  accompanied  by  a 
solitary  Hausa,  hope  to  overcome  them  ?  The  deputy 
Governor  scouted  the  idea  that  Warden  could  raise  a 
caravan  at  Bel  Abbas.  He  was  dubious  about  the 
incidents  reported  from  Lektawa,  but  he  made  no 
secret  of  the  utter  improbability  that  Warden  would 
have  the  means  of  buying  camels  and  hiring  men  for 
the  dangerous  journey  outlined  by  Captain  Mortimer. 
And,  to  complete  Evelyn's  dismay,  the  Southern 
Nigeria  administration  sent  the  most  positive  assur- 
ances that  Warden  had  not  been  heard  of  in  the  upper 
river  districts. 

She  learned  incidentally  that  Mrs.  Laing  had  gone 
to  Lokoja  in  a  river  steamer.  Her  hostess  believed 
that  Rosamund  had  found  out  the  latest  version  of 
Warden's  adventures,  and  cherished  a  faint  hope  that 
even  yet  she  might  forestall  Evelyn.  No  small  con- 
sideration would  take  her  so  far  into  the  interior, 
especially  as  the  journey  was  both  risky  and  useless. 

"But  that  need  not  trouble  you  at  all,  my  dear," 
said  her  outspoken  friend.  "If  Captain  Warden 
lives,  you  can  rest  assured  that  my  husband  will  hear 
of  him  long  before  Mrs.  Laing  hears.  I  am  afraid 
that  if  news  comes  at  all,  it  will  reach  us  in  the  form 
of  a  native  rumor  that  a  white  man  died  of  fever  away 

265 


TJie  Message 

up  there  beyond  the  hills.  It  is  always  fever  —  never 
a  spear  thrust  or  a  quantity  of  powdered  glass  mixed 
with  a  man's  food.  The  natives  are  loyal  enough  to 
each  other  in  that  respect.  Even  when  they  know  the 
truth,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  get  them  to  tell  it." 

So  now  it  was  death,  and  not  life,  that  was  talked 
of,  and  Evelyn  lived  on  in  dry-eyed  misery  until  Fair- 
holme  hinted  one  day  that  she  ought  to  return  home, 
as  the  climate  was  beginning  to  affect  her  health. 

There  were  not  lacking  indications  that  the  merry- 
souled  little  peer  had  quickly  reconciled  himself  to 
the  loss  of  Mrs.  Laing.  He  was  the  most  popular 
man  in  Lagos,  and  he  hardly  ever  visited  Evelyn 
when  he  did  not  assure  her  that  he  was  "havin'  a 
giddy  time  with  the  dear  girls."  Yet  she  knew  that 
he  was  only  waiting  until  the  last  hope  of  Warden's 
escape  from  the  desert  must  be  abandoned.  When 
that  hour  came,  and  she  was  prepared  to  take  ship 
for  England,  Fairholme  would  ask  her  to  marry  him. 

The  belief  became  an  obsession.  To  get  away 
from  it,  to  cut  herself  wholly  adrift  from  painful  asso- 
ciations, she  offered  her  help  to  an  American  Baptist 
missionary  and  his  wife  who  were  going  up  the  Benue. 
They  tried  to  dissuade  her,  pointing  out  the  hardships 
and  positive  dangers  of  the  undertaking  and  the  hum- 
drum nature  of  the  nursing,  teaching,  and  doctoring 
that  constituted  the  lot  of  a  medical  missionary  in 
West  Africa.  Finally,  they  consented,  but  stipulated 
that  she  should  give  her  new  career  a  six  months' 
trial. 

266 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

Fairholme  protested,  and  stormed,  and  was  only 
prevented  from  proposing  on  the  spot  by  Evelyn's 
placid  statement  that  no  matter  what  the  future  might 
decide,  she  should  not  be  happy  unless  she  had  vis- 
ited the  little-known  land  to  which  her  lover  had  given 
the  best  years  of  his  life. 

The  reference  to  Warden  effectually  sealed  his 
lips.  He  hastened  to  the  club,  asked  a  man  to  dine 
with  him,  drank  the  larger  part  of  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne, and  mournfully  informed  his  friends  that  he 
had  never  enjoyed  a  moment's  real  fun  since  he  ceased 
to  be  hard  up. 

So  Evelyn  said  good-by  to  the  hospitable  people 
who  entertained  her  at  Lagos,  and  made  the  long  voy- 
age up  the  great  river  that  perplexed  mankind  during 
so  many  centuries.  Even  yet  its  whole  course  has 
not  been  surveyed,  and  it  has  important  tributaries 
that  are  unknown  beyond  their  confluence  with  the 
main  stream.  But  the  river  steamer  followed  the 
established  trade  route  through  Old  Calabar  and 
Asabao  and  Idah  to  Lokoja;  thence  a  steam  launch 
took  the  small  party  of  Europeans  up  the  Benue  to 
Ibi,  and  they  completed  the  journey  in  a  roofed  boat 
of  shallow  draft  manned  by  krooboys. 

The  girl  seemed  now  to  have  left  behind  the  cares 
and  troubles  of  the  outer  world.  Busying  herself 
with  the  daily  life  of  the  mission  compound  —  once  a 
stockaded  trading-station  and  noted  center  for  the 
distribution  of  gin,  but  now  a  peaceful  hive  of  simple 
tuition  and  industry  —  she  soon  experienced  a  calm 

267 


The  Message 

sense  of  duty  accomplished  that  had  certainly  been 
denied  her  in  the  Baumgartner  household.  At  Lagos 
she  had  received  one  letter  from  Beryl,  who  complained 
bitterly  of  her  "desertion."  A  police  patrol-boat 
brought  her  a  letter  from  home,  in  which  her  step- 
mother expressed  the  strongest  disapproval  of  her  new 
departure  as  announced  by  a  hurried  note  sent  from 
Lagos.  And  that  was  all.  The  links  that  bound 
her  with  England  were  completely  snapped.  She 
might  almost  be  the  kidnapped  Domenico  Garcia, 
of  whom  she  thought  occasionally  when  some  chance 
aspect  of  a  negro's  face  startled  her  by  its  close  resem- 
blance to  the  black  mask  on  the  calabash. 

Mindful  of  the  Lagos  official's  warning,  she  never 
showed  the  carved  head  to  any  one.  Not  even  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hume,  the  mission  couple,  knew  that  it  was 
in  her  possession. 

She  had  been  nearly  two  months  in  Kadana,  as  the 
group  of  houses  and  huts  in  the  clearing  by  the  side 
of  the  yellow  Benue  was  called,  when  an  apparently 
trivial  incident  upset  the  placid  routine  of  the  mission. 
One  evening,  just  before  sunset,  a  ju-ju  man,  fearsomely 
bedaubed,  and  decked  with  an  amazing  headdress 
and  skirt  of  scarlet  feathers,  came  into  the  native  sec- 
tion of  the  compound.  He  cut  off  the  head  of  an  un- 
happy fowl  that  he  carried  with  him,  sprinkled  its 
warm  blood  in  a  circle  on  the  ground,  chanted  some 
hoarse  incantation,  and  vanished  into  the  bush. 

The  white  people  saw  him  from  a  distance.  They 
happened  to  be  standing  on  the  veranda  of  an  old 

268 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

factory  used  as  a  schoolhouse  and  dwelling,  and 
Mr.  Hume  was  greatly  annoyed  by  the  witch-doctor's 
visit. 

"This  will  unsettle  every  native  for  a  week  or  two," 
he  said,  eying  the  man's  antics  with  evident  disfavor. 
"Those  fellows  are  a  far  more  enduring  curse  to  Africa 
than  the  gin  traffic.  Governments  can  legislate  gin 
out  of  existence,  but  they  cannot  touch  ju-ju." 

"We  are  doing  something  in  that  direction  here," 
said  Evelyn,  glancing  over  her  shoulder  at  the  rows 
of  woolly-headed  little  black  figures  in  the  class-room. 

"Yes,  we  are  educating  the  children,  but  their 
parents  will  undo  to-night  all  that  we  have  accom- 
plished since  our  return.  Look  at  Bambuk.  He  has 
mixed  with  Europeans  during  the  past  ten  years,  yet 
he  is  white  with  terror." 

It  was  an  odd  phrase  to  use  with  regard  to  a  negro, 
but  it  was  quite  accurate.  Bambuk,  interpreter, 
head  sen-ant,  and  factotum-in-chief  to  the  mission, 
who  was  peering  through  the  doorway  at  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  ju-ju  man,  showed  every  sign  of  alarm 
when  he  saw  the  fowl-killing  ceremony.  His  ebony 
face,  usually  shining  and  jovial  looking,  became  livid 
and  drawn.  His  eyes  glistened  like  those  of  a  fright- 
ened animal. 

Turning  for  a  second  to  make  sure  that  the  children 
were  not  listening,  he  drew  near  and  whispered: 

"Oku  man  make  war  ju-ju.  Him  say  all  black 
people  lib  for  bush,  or  dem  King  of  Oku  nail  ebery 
one  to  tree  w'en  he  burn  mission." 

269 


The  Message 

Bambuk  could  speak  far  better  English  than  that. 
The  fact  that  he  had  reverted  so  thoroughly  to  the 
jargon  of  the  krooboy  proved  the  extent  of  his  fear. 

Hume  affected  to  make  light  of  the  witch-doctor 
and  his  threats. 

"Go  and  tell  him  to  stop  his  nonsense,"  he  said. 
"Say  I  have  a  bale  of  cotton  here  which  I  brought 
especially  from  Lagos  as  a  present  for  King  M'Wanga." 

But  before  Bambuk  could  descend  the  broad  flight 
of  steps  leading  from  the  veranda,  the  fetish  perform- 
ance was  at  an  end  and  its  chief  actor  had  rushed  off 
among  the  trees. 

Evelyn  felt  a  chill  run  through  her  body,  though 
the  air  was  hot  and  vapor-laden. 

"Is  M'Wagna  the  name  of  the  King  of  Oku?" 
she  asked. 

"I  believe  so.  I  have  been  absent  nearly  eight 
months,  as  you  are  aware,  but  I  haven 't  heard  of  any 
change  in  the  local  dynasty." 

"Do  you  think  it  likely  that  he  has  ever  visited  Eng- 
land?" 

"Most  improbable,"  said  Hume.  "He  is  an  abso- 
lute savage.  I  have  seen  him  only  once,  and  I  should 
be  sorry  to  think  that  my  life  depended  on  his  good 
will.  But  why  did  you  imagine  he  might  have  been 
in  England?" 

"Because  a  native  of  that  name  came  there  with 
two  others  last  August." 

"We  have  been  visited  by  ju-ju  men  before,  Charles," 
put  in  Mrs.  Hume. 

270 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

"Yes.  Generally  they  come  begging  for  something 
they  want  —  usually  drugs  —  which  they  pretend  to 
concoct  themselves  out  of  a  snake's  liver  or  the  giz- 
zard of  a  bird.  Don't  lay  too  much  stress  on  Bam- 
buk's  fright.  He  is  a  chicken-hearted  fellow  at  the  best. 
If  there  is  really  any  likelihood  of  a  native  disturb- 
ance I  shall  send  him  with  you  and  Miss  Dane  down 
the  river " 

"I  shall  not  go  without  you,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hume. 

"Nor  I  —  unless  both  of  you  come,"  answered 
Evelyn. 

Hume  laughed  constrainedly. 

"You  will  both  obey  orders,  I  hope,"  he  said,  but 
he  did  not  urge  the  matter  further  at  the  moment. 

They  were  eating  their  evening  meal  when  the  dis- 
tant tapping  of  a  drum  caught  their  ears.  It  was 
not  the  rhythmical  beating  of  a  tom-tom  by  some 
musically- inclined  bushman.  It  much  more  closely 
resembled  the  dot  and  dash  code  of  the  Morse  alpha- 
bet, or  that  variant  of  it  which  Private  Thomas  Atkins, 
in  a  spasm  of  genius,  christened  "Umty-iddy."  Heard 
in  the  stillness  of  the  forest,  with  not  a  breath  of  air 
stirring  the  leaves  of  the  tallest  trees,  and  even  the 
tawny  river  murmuring  in  so  low  a  note  that  it  was 
inaudible  from  the  mission-house,  this  irregular  drum- 
beating  had  a  depressing,  almost  a  sinister  effect. 
It  jarred  on  the  nerves.  It  suggested  the  unseen  and 
therefore  the  terrible.  At  all  costs  they  must  find  out 
what  it  sign  hied. 

Bambuk  was  summoned.     He  was  even  more  dis- 
271 


The  Message 

traught  than  during  the  fetish  performance  of  two 
hours  earlier. 

"Dem  Oku  drum  play  Custom  tune,"  he  explained. 
"Dem  Custom  mean " 

"Do  you  savvy  what  they  are  saying?"  broke  in 
Hume  sharply.  He  did  not  imagine  that  his  wife 
had  discussed  the  habits  of  native  potentates  with 
her  youthful  helper,  and  even  she  herself  did  not  know 
the  full  extent  of  the  excesses,  the  sheer  lust  of  blood- 
shed, hidden  under  a  harmless-sounding  word. 

"Savvy  plenty.  Dem  drum  made  of  monkey-skin 
—  p'haps  other  kind  of  skin  —  an'  dem  ju-ju  man  say: 
'Come,  come!  Make  sharp  dem  knife!  Come!  Load 
<lem  gun!  Come,  den,  come!  Dem  ribber  (river) 
run  red  wid  blood!'  Den  dey  nail  some  men  to  tree 
an'  make  dance." 

The  missionary  did  not  check  his  assistant's  recital. 
It  was  best  that  the  women  should  at  least  understand 
the  peril  in  which  they  were  placed.  The  compound 
held  not  more  than  fifty  able-bodied  men,  and  the 
only  arms  they  possessed  were  native  weapons.  Hume's 
influence  depended  wholly  on  his  skill  in  treating  the 
ailments  of  the  people  and  his  patience  in  teaching 
their  children  not  only  the  rudiments  of  English  but 
the  simpler  forms  of  handicraft.  His  experience  as 
an  African  missioner  was  not  of  long  standing,  but 
from  the  outset  he  had  consistently  refused  to  own 
any  firearm  more  deadly  than  a  shotgun.  Hitherto 
he  had  regarded  the  Upper  Benue  region  as  a  settled 
and  fairly  prosperous  one.  His  cherished  day-dream 

272 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

was  that  before  he  died  he  might  see  the  pioneer  set- 
tlement at  Kadana  transmuted  into  a  well-equipped 
college  and  training  school,  whence  Christianity  and 
science  might  spread  their  light  throughout  that  part 
of  Africa.  It  shocked  him  now  to  think  that  all  his 
work  might  be  submerged  under  a  wave  of  fanaticism, 
yet  he  clung  to  the  hope  that  the  warlike  preparations 
of  the  men  of  Oku  might  mean  nothing  more  serious 
than  a  tribal  quarrel.  This  had  happened  once  before, 
and  he  stepped  in  as  arbitrator.  By  a  liberal  distri- 
bution of  presents,  including  the  whole  of  the  mission 
stock  of  wine  and  brandy,  he  sent  away  both  parties 
highly  gratified  with  both  his  award  and  his  method 
of  arriving  at  it. 

"There  are  war-drums  beating  in  more  than  one 
place,"  said  Evelyn,  who  was  listening  in  silence  to 
the  spasmodic  tap-tap,  tap-tap-tap,  tap,  that  voiced  the 
dirge  translated  by  Bambuk. 

"Ah,  you  have  hit  on  my  unspoken  thought,"  cried 
Hume.  "Come,  now,  Bambuk,  are  you  not  enlarging 
your  story  somewhat  ?  Two  chiefs  make  war-palaver; 
isn't  that  the  explanation?" 

"Dem  Oku  drum,"  repeated  the  native,  "all  Oku 
drum.  Dey  call  for  Custom  to-night." 

"What  exactly  is  Custom,  Charles?"  said  Mrs. 
Hume. 

"Unfortunately,  it  means  in  this  instance  an  offer- 
ing of  human  sacrifice." 

He  saw  no  help  for  it.  They  must  know,  sooner 
or  later,  and  his  soul  turned  sick  at  the  thought  of  his- 

273 


The  Message 

wife  and  this  gentle  girl  who  had  thrown  in  her  lot 
with  theirs  falling  into  the  clutches  of  the  fetish-mad- 
dened bushmen.  Each  minute  he  grew  more  assured 
that  some  unusual  movement  was  taking  place  among 
the  surrounding  tribes.  Even  to  his  untutored  ear 
there  was  a  marked  similarity  in  the  drumming,  and 
he  determined  that  the  two  women  should  go  down 
the  river  in  the  mission  canoe  as  soon  as  the  moon 
rose.  A  crew  of  eight  men  could  take  them  to  the 
nearest  constabulary  post,  and  within  twenty-four  hours 
a  steam  launch  would  bring  back  an  armed  body  of 
Hausas  officered  by  an  Englishman.  Till  then,  he 
would  trust  to  Providence  for  the  safety  of  the  people 
under  his  care.  That  he  himself  could  desert  the 
mission  never  entered  his  mind.  Not  only  would  the 
settlement  break  up  in  direst  confusion  the  moment  his 
back  was  turned,  but  the  society's  houses  and  stores 
would  be  looted  and  destroyed,  and  the  work  of  years 
swept  away  in  a  single  night. 

He  was  considering  what  excuse  would  serve  to 
get  the  women  on  board  the  canoe,  when  the  splash 
of  paddles  close  at  hand  stirred  all  four  to  sudden 
excitement.  It  was  Bambuk  who  read  instantly  the 
meaning  of  this  unexpected  sound.  He  rushed  out, 
yelling  words  that  proved  how  soon  the  veneer  of  civil- 
ization can  wear  off  the  West  African  negro.  Soon 
he  came  back,  looking  sick  with  fear. 

"Dem  dam  pagan  nigger  make  off  in  dem  canoe," 
he  almost  screamed.  "Dey  savvy  plenty  too  much 
bushman  lib.  We  all  be  killed  one-time." 

274 


The  Drums  oj  Oku 

Even  Evelyn,  new  to  the  country  and  its  ways, 
realized  what  this  meant.  The  river  was  their  only 
highway.  There  were  native  tracks  in  plenty  through 
the  dense  forest,  but  to  march  along  any  one  of  them 
while  a  hostile  force  was  lying  across  every  path  was 
to  court  immediate  disaster.  By  running  away  from 
a  peril  which  was  only  passive  as  yet,  they  made  it 
active.  On  the  river  they  might  escape;  in  the  bush 
they  could  not  travel  a  mile  except  on  native  sufferance. 

Hume  tried  bravely  to  minimize  the  force  of  this 
unlooked-for  blow.  It  was  true  the  fugitives  might 
be  expected  to  carry  the  alarm  to  the  police  post, 
but  until  the  following  night  it  was  quite  impossible 
for  succor  to  reach  Kadana,  And  now  they  must 
all  stand  or  fall  by  the  mission. 

"I  did  not  think  any  of  our  men  would  be  such 
cowards,"  he  said  with  quiet  sadness.  "Let  us  go 
and  pacify  the  others.  When  all  is  said  and  done, 
we  have  harmed  no  one  in  Oku  territory,  but  given 
relief  to  many  who  were  in  pain.  I  still  believe  that 
this  scare  is  unwarranted,  and  our  presence  among 
our  people  will  tend  to  calm  them." 

A  minute  later  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  gone  alone. 
Every  hut  in  the  compound  was  empty.  Nearly  two 
hundred  men,  women,  and  children  had  fled  into  the 
bush,  preferring  to  obey  the  order  of  the  ju-ju  man 
rather  than  defy  him  by  remaining  in  the  mission. 
Bambuk  had  not  been  taken  into  their  confidence 
because  he  was  originally  a  Foulah  Mohammedan. 
The  colony  at  Kadana  was  precisely  what  Bambuk 

275 


The  Message 

had  called  its  members  in  his  rage,  for  the  Moham- 
medan negro  looks  down  upon  his  "pagan"  brethren 
with  supreme  contempt.  In  a  crisis  such  as  that 
which  now  threatened  to  engulf  the  mission,  these  nice 
distinctions  of  class  and  creed  are  apt  to  spring  into 
startling  prominence. 

Hume  faced  the  situation  gallantly. 

"Another  illusion  shattered,"  he  sighed.  "Most 
certainly  I  did  not  expect  that  all  my  people  would 
desert  me  at  the  first  hint  of  danger.  But  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  Even  now  I  cannot  believe  that 
the  king  of  Oku  —  if  it  really  is  he  who  has  created 
this  disturbance  —  can  contemplate  an  attack  on  Euro- 
peans. He  has  many  faults,  but  he  is  not  a  fool, 
and  he  knows  quite  well  how  swift  and  complete 
would  be  his  punishment  if  he  interfered  with  us." 

Mrs.  Hume  accepted  her  husband's  views,  and 
tried  to  look  at  matters  with  the  same  optimism. 
Evelyn,  curiously  enough,  was  better  informed  than 
even  their  native  companion  as  to  the  serious  nature 
of  the  outbreak.  She  was  convinced  that  Warden's 
theory  was  correct.  Some  stronger  influence  than  a 
mere  tribal  emeute  lay  behind  those  horrible  drum- 
beats. The  authorities  had  been  completely  hood- 
winked. In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  feared  that  Ka- 
dana  shared  its  deadly  peril  that  night  with  many  a 
stronger  trading-post  and  station  down  the  river. 

Bambuk,  quieting  down  from  his  earlier  paroxysms 
of  fear,  seemed  to  await  his  certain  doom  with  a  dig- 
nified fatalism.  Even  when  he  heard  the  thud  of 

276 


The  Drums  of  Oku 

paddles  on  the  sluggish  waters  of  the  river  he  announced 
the  fact  laconically. 

"Bush  man  lib!"  he  muttered. 

Perhaps  the  white  faces  blanched  somewhat,  and 
hearts  beat  a  trifle  faster,  but  Hume  alone  spoke. 

"Where?"  he  asked. 

"On  ribber  —  in  dem  war  canoe." 

They  strained  their  ears,  and  soon  caught  the  meas- 
ured plashing.  Then  Mrs  Hume  began  to  weep. 
Evelyn  knelt  by  her  side  in  mute  sympathy.  She  was 
too  dazed  to  find  relief  in  tears.  For  the  moment  she 
seemed  to  be  passing  through  a  torturing  dream  from 
which  she  would  soon  awake.  Hume,  who  had  gone 
to  the  door,  came  to  his  wife. 

"Don't  cry,  Mary,"  he  said.  "That  does  no  good 
—  and  —  it  breaks  my  heart.  I  have  not  abandoned 
hope.  God  can  save  us  even  yet.  Be  not  afraid  of 
them  that  kill  the  body,  and  after  that  have  no  more 
that  they  can  do." 

His  voice  was  strong  and  self-reliant.  Even  Bam- 
buk  glanced  at  him  with  a  kind  of  awe,  and  thought, 
it  may  be,  that  the  creed  he  had  tried  dimly  to  under- 
stand was  nobler  than  the  mere  stoicism  that  was  the 
natural  outcome  of  his  own  fantastic  beliefs.  The 
negro  was  stupid  with  terror,  or  he  could  not  have 
failed  to  distinguish  the  steady  hum  of  an  engine  run- 
ning at  half  speed. 

And  so  they  waited,  while  the  thud  of  the  paddles 
came  nearer,  until  at  last  the  bow  of  a  heavy  craft 
crashed  into  the  foliage  overhanging  the  bank,  and 

277 


The  Message 

they  were  rapt  into  a  heaven  of  relief  by  hearing  an 
English  voice. 

"Hello,  there!"  it  shouted.  "Is  this  the  Kadana 
Mission?" 

Mrs.  Hume  straightway  fainted,  but  Evelyn  was 
there  to  tend  her,  and  Hume  rushed  down  to  the 
landing-place.  The  gleam  of  a  moon  rising  over 
some  low  hills  was  beginning  to  make  luminous  the 
river  mist.  He  was  able  dimly  to  note  the  difl'erence 
between  the  pith  hats  of  two  Europeans  and  the  smart 
round  caps  of  a  number  of  Hausa  policemen.  And, 
though  a  man  of  peace,  he  found  the  glint  of  rifle  bar- 
rels singularly  comforting. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"Well,"  said  he  who  had  spoken  in  the  first  instance, 
"I  am  Lieutenant  Colville  of  the  constabulary,  but  I 
have  brought  with  me  the  Earl  of  Fairholme.  Have 
you  a  lady  named  Dane,  Miss  Evelyn  Dane,  staying 
with  you?" 

Hume,  who  wanted  to  fall  on  his  knees  and  offer 
thanks  to  Providence,  managed  to  say  that  Evelyn 
Dane  was  certainly  at  Kadana  at  that  moment. 

"Ah,  that's  the  ticket!"  said  another  voice.  "I 
suppose  you  can  put  us  up  for  the  night?  Any  sort 
of  shake-down  will  do,  so  long  as  we  get  away  from 
this  beastly  river.  Sleepin'  on  board  gives  one  the 
jim-jams,  eh,  what?" 


278 


CHAPTER  XV 


COLVILLE  leaped  ashore.  Without  appearing  to 
huny,  he  was  quickly  by  Hume's  side  and  asking  in 
an  undertone: 

"Why  has  this  war-drumming  started?  I  heard 
it  an  hour  ago  down  stream.  Our  engine  was  not  run- 
ning well,  so  the  men  got  the  paddles  to  work  and  we 
cracked  on  at  top  speed." 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  the  missionary,  who  was 
more  anxious  at  the  moment  to  reassure  the  women 
than  to  answer  questions. 

"But  is  there  any  bush  fighting  going  on?  Every- 
thing was  reported  to  be  all  right  when  I  left  Ibi." 

"May  heaven  be  praised  that  you  were  prompted 
to  visit  us!  My  wife,  Miss  Dane,  our  interpreter  and 
myself  —  four  out  of  two  hundred  —  alone  remain  in 
the  mission.  Some  of  our  people  stole  the  canoe  and 
made  off,  and  every  other  native  in  the  compound 
has  gone  into  the  bush.  When  we  heard  your  paddles 
just  now  we  thought  that  the  war  canoes  of  the  King 
of  Oku  were  approaching.  But  please  come  with  me 
to  the  house.  The  mere  sight  of  your  uniform  will 
show  the  ladies  that  our  danger  is  at  an  end." 

279 


The  Message 

Colville  was  young,  but  he  was  old  in  experience. 
He  had  also  learned  the  exceeding  wisdom  of  repress- 
ing opinions  that  were  not  called  for. 

"Wait  a  few  seconds,"  he  said.  "Here  is  Lord 
Fairholme.  But  for  his  urgent  wish  to  visit  Miss 
Dane,  we  should  not  have  been  in  Kadana  to-night. 
Hello!  Who  the  dev  —  what  canoe  is  that  ?" 

Even  while  he  was  speaking,  another  craft  shot  out 
from  the  dense  layer  of  mist  that  hid  the  surface  of 
the  river.  Though  the  trees  on  the  opposite  bank 
were  clearly  visible  in  the  ever-spreading  moonlight, 
the  Benue  itself  was  invisible.  A  Hausa  sergeant 
challenged  from  the  launch,  and  the  reply  came  in  his 
own  tongue.  A  small  native  boat,  propelled  by  two 
paddles,  grated  on  a  strip  of  shingle,  and  an  Arab  and 
a  negro  stepped  ashore. 

By  this  time,  Fairholme  had  joined  Colville  and  had 
been  introduced  to  Hume.  The  Arab,  hardly  waiting 
an  instant  for  a  response  to  a  curt  inquiry,  stalked 
towards  them.  He  was  a  tall  man,  gaunt  but  wiry, 
and  he  carried  himself  with  the  listless  air  of  one  barely 
convalescent  after  a  severe  illness. 

But  there  was  no  trace  of  listlessness  in  his  voice. 
He  singled  out  Colville  immediately  as  the  officer  in 
charge  of  the  party,  and  addressed  him  in  the  Hausa 
language. 

"You  would  better  bring  your  men  ashore,  run  the 
launch  as  far  up  the  bank  as  possible,  and  barricade 
yourself  in  the  strongest  building  available,"  he  said. 
"The  men  of  Oku  are  out.  Three  of  their  war  canoes 

280 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

are  stationed  at  the  bend  in  the  river  and  their  occu- 
pants are  armed  with  Mannlicher  rifles.  Escape 
that  way  is  impossible.  Your  only  chance  is  to  hold 
this  post  as  long  as  Allah  permits.  I  shall  try  to  pass 
the  blockading  canoes  and  reach  Ibi,  though  I  fear  it 
will  be  too  late." 

Colville  hardly  knew  at  which  he  was  most  amazed, 
the  commanding  tone  of  this  haggard  son  of  the  desert 
or  the  astounding  news  he  brought. 

"Say,  then,  hadji,"  he  cried,  half  ironically,  "What 
plague  has  broken  out  in  Oku  that  the  whole  line  of 
the  Benue  should  be  threatened." 

"The  chief  plague  is  that  of  blindness  among  officers 
who  fail  to  see  the  pits  dug  for  them  by  crafty  natives," 
was  the  stern  answer.  "I  speak  truly,  young  master. 
You  have  half  an  hour,  at  best  an  hour,  in  which  to 
make  preparations." 

"But  these  war  canoes  you  speak  of  —  they  are  not 
at  the  bend;  I  have  just  come  up  stream." 

"They  passed  but  now.  You  did  not  see  them  for 
the  mist.  I  accompanied  them." 

"Why  did  I  not  hear  them?" 

"They  drifted  down  quietly  lest  they  should  arouse 
the  mission." 

"And  yet  you  came  here?     Why?" 

"To  warn  the  mission  people.  Hurry,  I  pray  you, 
and  waste  no  time  in  useless  talk." 

"Oh,  I  say,  Colville,"  broke  in  Fairholme  who  under- 
stood no  word  of  this  dialogue  and  wondered  why  the 
English  officer  should  permit  an  Arab  to  detain  him, 

281 


The  Message 

"can't  Mr.  Hume  take  me  to  Miss  Dane?  If  she  is 
as  sick  of  this  rotten  river  as  I  am  she'll  be  jolly  glad 
to  see  me." 

"Certainly,"  said  Colville.  "I  shall  follow  you 
soon.  This  chap  seems  to  be  able  to  explain  matters, 
so  I  must  remain  here  a  few  minutes." 

Hume,  eager  to  get  away,  led  Fairholme  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  house.  The  young  soldier  felt  a  strong 
hand  grasp  his  shoulder,  and  an  English  voice  whis- 
pered : 

"Colville,  don't  you  know  me?" 

They  were  standing  in  a  cleared  space  where  the 
moonbeams  gave  some  degree  of  light.  The  Arab 
had  pushed  back  his  burnous,  revealing  a  worn,  hand- 
some face,  tanned  brown  with  exposure.  Though 
the  characteristic  traits  of  his  supposed  race  are  the 
heavy  lip,  and  the  hawk-like  nose,  this  man  was 
straight-nosed  and  thin-lipped.  He  was  cadaverous 
enough,  but  no  Arab. 

Colville  did  more  than  gaze,  he  actually  gaped  at 
the  other.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  cultured  accent 
of  an  English  gentleman,  and  yet  —  the  thing  could 
not  be;  he  fancied  he  was  bewitched. 

"My  dear  Jimmie,  have  I  changed  so  much,  then, 
since  last  we  played  snooker  together  in  the  club?" 

"Well,  I'm  blessed!"  muttered  Colville,  or  to  be 
candid,  he  used  the  subaltern's  variant  of  the  phrase. 

"You  soon  will  be  if  you  don't  do  as  I  tell  you," 
came  the  emphatic  assurance.  "But  before  I  go,  for 
I  must  give  the  people  at  Ibi  a  chance  —  though  it  is 

282 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

a  thousand  to  one  I  shall  be  too  late  —  who  is  the  lady 
your  friend  inquired  about  ?  " 

Colville  wanted  to  say  so  much  that  he  found  but 
few  words.  He  could  only  gasp: 

"My  dear  Warden  —  didn't  you  hear?" 

"I  heard  her  name,  of  course,  but  it  cannot  be  a 
lady  of  the  same  name  in  whom  I  was  once  interested. 
Still,  it  is  an  odd  thing  it  should  be  mentioned  to-night, 
and  in  this  place.  Who  is  she?" 

"Oh,  d n  it  all!"  groaned  Colville,  "how  could 

any  poor  devil  guess  he  was  in  for  this  sort  of  stew 
when  he  started  from  Ibi  yesterday!" 

"I  assure  you  we  are  wasting  precious  time,  Jimmie. 
Perhaps  it  is  my  fault,  but  the  question  was  a  natural 
one  under  the  circumstances.  Tell  your  men  it  is  all 
right,  or  they  may  want  to  prevent  my  departure; 
they  understand  those  drums,  you  know.  My  only 
hope  of  success  in  case  I  am  stopped  at  the  bend  is  to 
keep  up  the  pretense  that  I  am  a  special  envoy  from  the 
emirs  in  the  interior.  Some  day,  if  we  win  through  this 
business,  I  shall  have  a  fine  yarn  for  you.  Good-by!" 

"But  look  here,  old  chap,  I  can't  let  you  slip  away 
like  that.  Confound  it!  I  don't  know  what  to  say, 
but  the  plain  truth  is  best,  perhaps.  The  girl  you 
were  engaged  to,  Miss  Evelyn  Dane,  is  inside  the  mis- 
sion-house now,  this  minute,  and  the  man  I  brought 
from  Ibi  is  the  Earl  of  Fairholme.  He  told  me  all 
about  you  on  the  way  up.  He's  a  decent  sort,  and 
he  is  wild  over  Miss  Dane.  But  it  is  only  fair  to 

add " 

283 


The  Message 

A  series  of  blood-curdling  yells  and  a  volley  of  mus- 
ketry that  lit  the  bush  with  spurts  of  flame  put  an 
abrupt  end  to  Colville's  qualifying  sentence.  He  was 
so  taken  aback  by  the  extraordinary  coincidence  that 
Warden  should  arrive  at  Kadana  almost  at  the  same 
instant  as  the  man  who  had  come  there  with  the 
avowed  intent  of  taking  Evelyn  Dane  home  to  Eng- 
land as  his  wife,  that  for  one  bemused  second  he 
failed  to  grasp  the  imminence  or  extent  of  the  native 
onslaught. 

It  was  otherwise  with  Warden.  Though  his  brain 
might  well  have  reeled  at  the  words  he  had  just  heard 
from  a  brother  officer's  lips,  the  incessant  watchfulness 
demanded  by  the  life  of  the  past  five  months  had 
created  in  him  a  second  nature.  While  his  heart 
asked  tumultuous  questions  and  found  no  answer  to 
any  of  them,  his  head'  dictated  the  steps  that  must 
be  taken  if  they  were  to  offer  any  sort  of  organized 
defense. 

"Company!  Attention!"  he  shouted.  "Four  men 
remain  with  the  launch,  keep  steam  up  and  shove 
off  from  the  bank;  all  others  follow  to  the  mission. 
Double  —  March!  Beni  Kalli,  run  the  canoe  ashore 
and  come!" 

The  loud  command,  proceeding  apparently  from 
their  leader,  though  not  in  their  leader's  voice,  was 
promptly  obeyed  by  the  Hausas.  They  came  run- 
ning across  the  clearing,  loading  their  rifles  and  fixing 
bayonets  as  they  ran. 

"Now,  Colville,  take  hold!"  said  Warden  coolly. 
284 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

"I'm  afraid  I  startled  you  out  of  your  wits,  but  they're 
your  men,  not  mine." 

The  younger  man  needed  no  second  bidding.  Glad 
of  the  night  that  hid  the  scarlet  in  his  face,  he  told  the 
small  squad  to  surround  the  mission-house.  They 
would  be  less  visible  beneath  the  veranda  than  on  it. 
Hume  and  Fairholme  with  two  women  in  white  dresses 
had  rushed  out  at  the  first  sound  of  firing,  and  they 
were  painfully  distinct  in  the  light  that  came  from  a 
large  lamp  inside  the  room  at  the  back. 

"Shout  to  them  to  get  inside,  close  the  doors,  and 
extinguish  all  lights,"  said  Warden,  keeping  close  to 
Colville  during  the  combined  rush  to  gain  the  obscu- 
rity afforded  by  the  heavy  beams  that  supported  the 
upper  story. 

Colville  obeyed.  He  was  honestly  glad  that  a 
stronger  man  had  taken  control.  His  knowledge  of 
the  country  told  him  that  a  most  serious  and  far- 
spread  rebellion  was  in  progress.  Rifles,  not  gas- 
pipe  guns,  were  in  the  hands  of  a  tribe  famed  for  its 
fighting  qualities.  He  had  a  dozen  men,  not  counting 
the  four  in  the  launch,  to  meet  the  onset  of  as  many 
thousands.  He  did  not  fear  death,  for  he  had  faced 
it  many  times,  but  it  was  one  thing  to  enter  on  a  defi- 
nite campaign,  no  matter  what  the  odds,  and  quite 
another  to  find  himself  plunged  into  a  seemingly  hope- 
less fight  in  a  time  of  profound  peace,  and  at  the  close 
of  an  exhausting  journey  undertaken  to  oblige  a  sport- 
ing British  peer. 

He  had  to  bellow  his  instructions  twice  before  the 
285 


The  Message 

alarmed  occupants  of  the  mission-house  quitted  the 
veranda.  The  sound  of  his  own  voice  was  helpful; 
it  steadied  him.  It  was  in  his  natural  tone  that  he 
growled  to  Warden: 

"Fairholme  admits  that  he  is  an  ass,  rather  boasts 
of  it,  in  fact,  but  I  thought  Hume  would  have  more 
sense  than  to  let  the  women  stand  there  offering  a 
clear  target." 

"They  are  safe  enough  yet,"  was  the  reply.  "Their 
rooms  face  the  river;  the  attack  is  coming  from  the 
bush." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  take  to  the  river  at 
once  ? " 

"No,  that  means  certain  death.  There  are  three 
canoes,  and  each  has  a  Nordenfeldt  mounted  in  its 
bows." 

"Good  Lord,  man,  a  Nordenfeldt!" 

"Yes,  and  M'Wanga  has  a  dozen  12-pounders  in 
two  batteries  at  Oku.  Not  that  they  will  ever  be  of 
much  use  to  him.  I  took  care  of  that.  But  I  failed 
utterly  to  get  on  board  the  canoes.  They  were  moored 
in  mid-stream,  guarded  day  and  night,  and  the  guns 
were  sheeted.  Moreover,  I  have  been  out  of  gear 
nearly  six  weeks.  This  is  a  big  business,  Colville. 
How  is  it  no  one  knew  of  what  was  going  on  ? " 

"There  were  rumors,  but  they  died  down. 
Forbes " 

"Did  they  send  Forbes  in  my  place?" 

"Yes." 

"That  explains  it.  He  is  a  capital  fellow  in  an 
286 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

office.  To  ask  him  to  unravel  an  Oku  plot  was  to 
set  a  bat  catching  sparrows  by  daylight." 

They  had  plenty  of  time  to  discuss  matters  thus 
coolly.  No  West  African  fighting-man  would  demean 
himself  by  delivering  an  assault  on  an  enemy's  position 
without  a  preliminary  hubbub  of  yells  and  wild  shoot- 
ing. It  is  different  when  he  is  the  defender.  Then 
he  will  lie  close  as  a  partridge  till  the  precise  mo- 
ment that  his  usually  antiquated  guns  can  most  effec- 
tually belch  forth  a  destroying  blast  of  nails,  iron 
scraps,  pebbles,  and  broken  glass  and  pottery. 

But  the  seconds  passed,  and  the  minutes,  and  no 
horde  of  demoniac  figures  poured  across  the  open 
compound.  The  shooting  was  incessant,  yet  no  bullet 
struck  the  house,  though  not  even  an  indifferent  na- 
tive marksmen  could  well  avoid  hitting  a  big  building 
in  which  all  the  living-rooms  were  on  the  same  floor 
as  the  veranda.  The  lower  part  of  the  structure 
served  as  a  store. 

The  Hausa  soldier-policemen,  picked  men  of  the 
West  African  Regiment,  were  trained  not  to  fire  with- 
out orders.  They  were  far  too  few  in  number  to  line 
the  stockade,  which  enclosed  a  space  fully  two  acres 
in  extent.  In  any  case,  the  defense  it  afforded  was 
worse  than  useless.  The  gates  were  jammed  open 
by  a  year's  growth  of  herbage.  In  some  instances,  a 
passage  had  been  made  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
removing  a  whole  section.  It  would  demand  many 
hours  of  labor  by  a  hundred  men  to  put  the  palisade 
in  a  serviceable  condition.  Hume's  effort  was  to 

287 


The  Message 

establish  a  mission,  not  a  fort,  in  this  jungle  out- 
post. 

The  Hausa  sergeant  was  puzzled  in  more  ways  than 
one.  He  heard  his  officer  talking  English  to  an  Arab, 
he  heard  the  unmistakable  crackling  of  rifles  fully 
equal  to  those  with  which  he  and  the  others  were  armed, 
and  he  was  unable  to  account  for  the  delay  in  the 
attack. 

Enjoining  on  his  men  the  necessity  of  keeping  well 
within  the  shadow,  he  crept  along  close  to  the  wall 
until  he  stood  by  Colville's  side.  He  was  about  to  ask 
permission  to  make  a  reconnaissance,  and  thus  force 
the  enemy  to  reveal  themselves,  when  an  incident  al- 
most without  precedent  in  bush  warfare  took  place. 

The  indiscriminate  firing  stopped,  the  wild-beast 
noises  died  away  into  absolute  silence,  and  a  strip  of 
white  cotton  suddenly  became  visible  in  one  of  the 
many  gaps  in  the  stockade.  It  was  held  stationary 
for  a  moment,  then  a  native  warrior  stepped  boldly 
forth  into  the  moonlight.  His  magnificent  physique 
was  enhanced  by  the  war  trappings  that  decked  his 
head,  breast,  and  loins,  and  he  strode  forward  with 
the  lithe  movements  of  a  man  in  perfect  training. 
When  he  entered  the  compound,  it  was  seen  that  he 
carried  a  white  flag  on  a  lance.  He  meant  to  parley, 
and  such  a  departure  from  the  savage  methods  of  a 
semi-cannibal  tribe  was  hitherto  unheard  of.  Usu- 
ally, an  unprotected  party  of  Europeans,  whether 
missionaries  or  traders,  are  butchered  without  mercy 
if  found  within  the  zone  of  tribal  foray. 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

"By  gad,"  muttered  Colville,  "they're  going  to 
offer  terms!" 

"I  think  I  can  guess  what  the  terms  will  be,"  said 
Warden.  "There's  a  woman  in  the  case,  Jimmie  — 
something  new  in  a  bush  campaign,  eh?" 

The  subaltern  did  not  understand  the  curious  under- 
tone of  grim  irony  in  the  remark;  but  he  was  aware  of 
it  and  made  no  reply.  The  black  warrior  had  halted. 
His  wonderfully  developed  sense  of  hearing  warned 
him  that  some  one  not  in  the  house  was  speaking, 
and  the  voices  could  come  from  no  other  place  than 
the  gloomy  recess  beneath  the  veranda. 

"O  Hume!"  he  cried  loudly.     "I  fit  for  palaver." 

Colville  half  expected  that  Warden  would  answer 
for  Hume.  He  was  mistaken.  His  senior  leaned 
back  against  the  wall  of  the  store,  and  folded  his 
arms  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  meant  to  abide 
by  a  settlement  in  whose  discussion  he  can  take  no 
part. 

The  negro,  though  trusting  to  his  vague  conception 
of  a  code  of  honor  that  he  associated  with  fighting 
against  white  men,  came  no  nearer. 

"O  Hume!"  he  cried  again,  "open  dem  door  one- 
time, an'  hear  what  I  fit  for  say." 

In  the  strange  hush  succeeding  the  frenzied  uproar 
that  announced  the  presence  of  a  host  of  armed  na- 
tives, the  envoy's  words  were  clearly  audible  to  the 
five  people  in  the  upper  rooms.  Hume  came  out, 
followed  by  Bambuk. 

"Who  are  you  and  what  do  you  want?"  said  the 
289 


The  Message 

missionary.  "Why  do  you  come  to  me  at  night,  and 
threaten  the  lives  of  my  friends  and  myself  in  this 
manner?" 

"I  done  tell  you  if  Bambuk  lib.  I  no  fit  for  long 
palaver." 

At  this,  the  interpreter  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the 
veranda. 

"You  are  Loanda,  I  think?"  he  said,  using  the 
vernacular. 

"Yes."  was  the  reply.  "Tell  the  white  man  that 
the  lives  of  himself  and  his  wife  will  be  spared,  and 
they  will  be  taken  in  safety  to  the  frontier,  if  the  Eng- 
lish girl  now  in  their  house  is  handed  over  to  us  at 
once.  She,  too,  will  be  well  treated.  One  whom  she 
knows,  Miguel  Figuero,  awaits  her  at  Oku.  He  is 
our  friend,  so  she  need  have  no  fear.  I,  Loanda,  say 
it,  and  that  which  I  say  is  done." 

Bambuk  translated  this  astounding  request  literally. 
Evelyn  heard  every  word,  and  she  alone  grasped  their 
terrible  import.  She  appeared  in  the  doorway,  white- 
faced,  with  eyes  that  terror  had  made  almost  dis- 
traught. 

"Miguel  Figuero!"  repeated  the  bewildered  Hume. 
"Isn't  that  the  name  of  the  Portuguese  rascal  you  have 
told  us  of,  Miss  Dane?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  tense  with  the 
effort  to  keep  it  from  breaking.  "He  is  in  league  with 
the  men  of  Oku.  I  knew  it,  and  Captain  Warden 
warned  the  authorities  at  home  about  him,  but  no  one 
here  would  listen.  Oh,  Mr.  Hume,  it  is  a  dreadful 

290 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

thing  to  say,  but  rather  than  fall  into  that  man's  power 
I  would  kill  myself." 

"You  surely  don't  imagine  that  we  would  agree  to 
those  terms,  do  you?" 

Hume  was  almost  indignant,  but  Evelyn  flung  her- 
self on  her  knees  and  lifted  her  clasped  hands  in  agony 
to  the  star-studded  sky. 

"What  else  can  I  do?"  she  wailed.  "My  life  is 
broken.  I  have  nothing  left  to  live  for.  If  I  refuse 
this  offer  of  peace,  it  means  that  all  your  lives  are 
forfeit  —  yours  and  your  wife's,  and  Lord  Fairholme's, 
and  those  of  the  officer  and  men  who  came  here  in  the 
launch  from  Ibi.  Tell  him  I  agree.  I  will  go  to  this 
man.  But  make  the  chief  promise  to  spare  you  and 
the  others.  I  must  know  first  that  you  are  safe.  Then 
—  O  God,  pardon  me!  —  then  —  I 

"My  dear  girl  —  which  of  us  would  purchase  a  few 
more  hours  of  life  at  such  a  price  ? " 

"But  you  do  not  understand,"  she  blazed  forth. 
"If  the  death  of  one  can  save  many  why  shouldn't  the 
one  die?  We  can't  hope  to  resist  these  men;  there 
are  thousands  of  them.  And  unless  I  fall  by  my  own 
hand,  they  may  capture  me  unharmed  after  you  have 
given  your  lives  uselessly  in  my  defense.  Oh,  pity  me 
and  pray  for  me,  but  do  not  let  me  be  responsible  for 
the  slaughter  of  the  few  friends  I  possess  in  the  world!" 

She  could  no  longer  restrain  her  tears.  The  dark 
blue  dome  that  typified  the  heaven  to  which  she  looked 
for  mercy  was  blotted  out  of  sight.  She  cowered  as 
though  from  a  blow,  and  wept  pitifully.  Then  a  voice 

291 


The  Message 

rang  out  from  the  compound  directly  in  front  of  where 
she  knelt.  As  the  opening  syllables  reached  her  ears, 
though  she  understood  no  word  that  was  uttered,  her 
surcharged  brain  harbored  a  new  dread,  for  the  man 
who  was  speaking  spoke  in  Warden's  voice  —  Warden, 
whom  she  had  learned  to  regard  as  dead  these  months 
past.  Of  course,  grief  and  fear  had  driven  her  mad! 
She  swept  away  the  tears  that  blurred  her  vision,  and 
peered  through  the  rails  of  the  veranda,  but  she  saw 
only  a  cloaked  Arab  who  had  stepped  forth  into  the 
moonlight,  and  was  now  addressing  stern  warnings  to 
the  amazed  Loanda.  And  fantasy  played  her  dis- 
tracted senses  another  strange  trick.  The  face  of  the 
native  chief  was  plainly  visible.  She  watched  its 
expression  change  from  sheer  wonderment  to  baffled 
rage,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  not  Loanda  who 
glowered  at  the  Arab  who  harangued  him,  but  the 
scowling  mask  carved  on  the  gourd  by  Domenico 
Garcia. 

Oh,  yes,  she  was  truly  mad.  She  realized  it  herself, 
but  the  others  would  never  suspect  it.  Then  the  per- 
sistence of  the  notion  brought  relief  to  her  aching 
heart.  A  kindly  delirium  might  carry  her  through  the 
ordeal  that  lay  before  her.  She  no  longer  feared 
insanity,  rather  did  she  welcome  it,  and  now  was  her 
chance  to  act  while  she  was  brave  and  would  not  flinch 
from  that  which  she  conceived  was  .her  duty. 

But  why  was  that  tall  Arab  still  talking  in  Warden's 
voice,  and  why  did  the  stalwart  savage  seem  to  threaten 
him  with  furious  gesture  ?  Even  while  she  was  gazing 

292 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

between  the  wooden  bars  of  the  railing,  she  saw 
Loanda  grasp  his  spear  menacingly,  whereupon  the 
Arab  laughed  —  how  like  it  was  to  Warden's  laugh 
of  good-natured  raillery!  —  and  a  couple  of  Hausa 
soldiers  appeared,  with  rifles  held  suggestively,  as  men 
hold  shotguns  when  they  expect  a  rabbit  to  scuttle  out 
of  a  spinney. 

Again,  being  still  under  the  spell  of  that  sudden 
lunacy,  she  heard  the  Arab  say  in  English,  and  more 
amazingly  than  ever  in  Warden's  very  tones: 

"Now,  Jimmie!  Four  paces  to  the  front  in  open 
order  —  every  man  —  quick!" 

An  English  officer  and  several  soldiers  came  out  into 
the  open.  After  one  glance  of  sheer  astonishment,  the 
Oku  chief  turned  and  stalked  away  towards  the  bush. 
He  did  not  deign  to  hurry,  but  his  lithe  springy  gait 
soon  carried  him  into  the  somber  shadows.  The 
dramatic  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by  the  man 
in  an  officer's  uniform. 

"  By  gad,  Warden,  you  did  that  splendidly,"  he  said. 
"I  should  never  have  thought  of  it.  Do  you  think  it 
will  work?" 

"For  to-night,  perhaps.  One  never  knows  just  how 
the  native  mind  will  look  at  a  thing.  It  gave  Loanda 
a  positive  shock  when  he  was  really  convinced  that 
a  British  officer  was  not  only  present  at  most  of 
M'Wanga's  war  palavers,  but  had  thrown  out  of  gear 
every  field  gun  in  his  precious  battery.  He  would  not 
tell  me  where  M'Wanga  is  now,  but  I  hardly  think 
they  will  attack  us  in  earnest  before  consulting  him." 

293 


The  Message 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe  you  have  knocked  the 
bottom  out  of  the  whole  bally  business,"  said  Colville 
jubilantly.  "They  are  scared  to  death  of  you,  Warden. 
You  are  the  first  man  who  had  the  opportunity  to  bust 
up  the  Oku  ju-ju,  and,  by  Jove,  didn't  you  take  it?" 

But  Colville  was  wrong.  The  weird  hoot  of  an  owl 
came  from  the  bush,  a  drum  tapped  out  a  signal,  and 
instantly  the  forest  became  alive  with  vivid  jets  of 
light.  The  negroes  had  begun  their  fusillade  again, 
and  this  time  they  meant  to  kill,  not  to  frighten.  Bul- 
lets whistled  past  the  house,  imbedded  themselves  in 
the  stout  timbers,  tore  huge  splinters  from  beams, 
and  hurled  shingles  from  the  roof.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
miracle  that  every  person  in  or  near  the  building  was 
not  struck  instantly,  but  the  opening  volley  sent  the 
Hausas  to  cover  beneath  the  veranda,  where  they  were 
told  to  lie  flat  on  the  ground  behind  the  protecting 
supports.  To  reply  to  the  enemy's  fire  would  be 
merely  a  waste  of  precious  ammunition,  and  the  men 
carried  only  a  small  quantity  in  their  bandoliers.  The 
time  to  fire  was  when  every  shot  would  be  effective. 
Rarely  will  untrained  savages  press  home  an  attack 
when  their  foremost  warriors  fall.  The  Hausas, 
negroes  themselves,  had  been  taught  this  in  many  a 
bush  skirmish,  and  they  had  absolute  confidence  in 
their  white  leaders,  for,  by  this  time,  the  rumor  had 
gone  round  that  the  man  in  Arab  clothing  was  the 
well-known  deputy  commissioner  of  the  Brass  River, 
under  whom  some  of  them  had  fought  in  the  sister 
protectorate. 

294 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

Hume,  who  was  cool  as  any  soldier,  seized  Evelyn's 
arm  the  instant  that  the  first  bullet  crashed  into  the 
wood-work.  Fairholme,  too,  who  had  recovered  from 
the  stupefying  suddenness  of  what  was,  to  him,  a  wholly 
unexpected  sequel  to  a  wearisome  trip  up  a  fever- 
laden  river,  ran  forward  to  help,  and  the  two  men  half 
carried  the  girl  to  the  protection  of  the  house. 

But  she  had  no  thought  of  danger.  Though  it  was 
dark  inside  the  main  living-room,  she  held  them  fast 
when  they  would  have  released  her,  and  tried  to  read 
their  very  souls  by  a  look. 

"Did  you  hear?"  she  gasped.  "That  man  —  the 
Arab  —  who  is  he  ?  ...  The  other  called  him  Warden 
.  .  .  Why  should  he  do  that?  .  .  .  Was  it  not  cruel  of 
him?  .  .  .  And  why,  why,  did  it  seem  to  me  that  I 
heard  Arthur's  voice?" 

"Calm  yourself,  Miss  Dane,"  said  the  missionary 
quietly.  "Providence  at  times  adopts  means  not 
within  mortal  ken.  I  could  not  follow  what  was  said 
to  Loanda,  but  Bambuk  tells  me  that,  by  some  astound- 
ing chance,  Captain  Arthur  Warden  has  not  only 
crossed  a  large  part  of  Africa,  but  has  lived  many 
weeks  in  Oku  itself,  and  is  now  taking  measures  which 
will,  I  trust,  by  God's  mercy,  secure  our  safety." 

A  queer  choking  cry  came  from  the  girl's  parched 
throat. 

"Then  I  am  not  mad?"  she  murmured.  "He  is 
really  there !  And  he  heard  what  I  said  —  when  — • 
when  I  offered  to  go  to  Figuero  ? " 

"Yes,  of  course  he  heard.  It  seemed  to  me  it  was 
295 


on  your  account  that  he  made  himself  known  to  the 
chief.  But  I  do  not  yet  understand  exactly  what 
happened.  I  only  know  that  when  first  he  spoke  to 
Colville  he  used  Arabic." 

"Yes,  by  gad,"  put  in  Fairholme,  finding  an  opening 
at  last.  "I  thought  he  was  a  beastly  native,  an'  I 
cut  hi  like  a  bloomin'  ass.  Just  my  usual  luck,  Eve- 
lyn. The  favorite  got  up  in  the  last  stride  an'  pipped 
the  outsider  by  a  short  head,  eh,  what?" 

The  earl's  happy-go-lucky  method  of  expressing 
himself  was  singularly  out  of  tune  with  his  surround- 
ings. Hume  had  closed  the  door,  and  the  windows 
were  already  shuttered,  so  the  darkness  was  now  that 
of  Pharaoh's  Egypt  when  Moses  stretched  forth  his 
hand  towards  heaven.  From  without  came  the  inces- 
sant crackling  of  musketry,  and  the  maniacal  howl- 
ings  of  negroes  inspiring  each  other  for  the  ultimate 
hand-to-hand  fight;  within,  one  heard  the  hysterical 
sobbing  of  Mrs.  Hume,  the  mutterings  of  the  Foulah 
servant,  and  the  patter  of  small  debris  from  walls  and 
roof  as  the  building  shook  under  the  sledge-hammer 
blows  of  bullets  traveling  at  a  high  velocity.  Luckily, 
as  Warden  had  pointed  out,  the  front  of  the  mission- 
house  faced  the  river,  and  there  was  no  firing  from 
that  quarter  as  yet.  The  veranda  was  approached  by 
a  double  staircase  which  mounted  from  each  side  and 
met  at  a  small  landing,  whence  half  a  dozen  steps  led 
to  the  level  of  the  upper  floor.  As  both  sections  of 
the  stairs  projected  beyond  the  line  of  the  building, 
their  comparatively  thin  boards  were  being  constantly 

296 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

ripped  and  split  by  the  leaden  missiles  that  hurtled  in 
from  both  flanks. 

It  was  spinning  a  coin  with  death  for  any  one  to 
descend  either  to  right  or  left,  yet  that  is  what  Evelyn 
did  when  Lord  Fairholme's  bizarre  explanation  brought 
her  back  to  the  world  which  she  had  already  quitted 
in  imagination.  Owing  to  the  tomb-like  blackness  of 
the  room,  neither  man  was  aware  of  her  intent  until 
the  door  was  opened  and  she  was  speeding  down  the 
shattered  stairs. 

In  her  white  dress  she  was  a  most  conspicuous  object. 
A  pent-house  roof  shielded  the  stairs  from  sun  and 
rain,  but  the  moment  she  emerged  into  the  moonlit 
compound  she  resembled  some  ethereal  creature  sent 
by  the  gods  to  still  the  wretched  strife  waged  by  foolish 
men.  And,  spirit-like,  she  passed  unscathed  through 
the  hissing  and  biting  rain  of  lead.  She  had  but  one 
thought,  and  it  fluttered  tremulously  from  her  lips. 

"Arthur!"  she  wailed,  "Arthur!     I  am  here!" 

And  again,  "Arthur!  Come  to  me!  Why  don't 
you  speak?  ...  It  is  I,  Evelyn  .  .  .  Where  are  you? 
Oh,  Arthur  dear,  answer  me." 

Warden  was  lying  by  Colville's  side  behind  a  main 
pillar  at  an  angle  of  the  house  when  he  heard  the  girl's 
rapt  cry.  Turning  on  an  elbow,  he  saw  her  flitting 
past.  He  was  up  in  an  instant.  Without  spoken 
word  he  leaped  out  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

Colville  rose  too. 

"Oh,  good  Lord!"  he  muttered,  "they  will  both  be 
killed!" 

£97 


The  Message 

But  fate  had  chosen  for  Warden  a  strange  path  to  a 
woman's  love,  and  the  fickle  goddess  shielded  him 
now  when  he,  all  a-quiver  with  the  thrill  of  holding 
Evelyn  in  his  arms,  clasped  her  tightly  and  ran  with 
her  up  the  rickety  stairs.  Even  as  he  hurried  to  place 
her  in  shelter  the  bushmen  had  seen  the  white-robed 
apparition  and  concentrated  their  fire  in  that  direction. 
Bullets  spat  against  the  ground,  crashed  through  the 
flimsy  wooden  structure,  and  pierced  their  clothing 
many  times  —  but  neither  was  injured.  A  few  seconds 
after  she  had  passed  through  the  door  Evelyn  was 
carried  back  again.  But  it  was  a  fitting  outcome  of 
the  madness  that  had  fallen  on  the  quiet  mission- 
station  that  she  should  be  blithely  heedless  of  the 
mortal  peril  which  both  she  and  her  lover  had  escaped. 
Even  while  death  was  missing  them  by  a  hair's  breadth, 
she  began  to  tell  Warden  in  broken  phrases  how  she 
had  never  faltered  in  her  belief  that  he  would  one  day 
be  restored  to  her,  and  that  she  had  come  to  Africa 
and  the  Benue  strong  in  the  conviction  that  they  would 
meet  there  and  nowhere  else  in  the  wide  world. 

All  of  this,  and  more,  was  delightfully  inaccurate, 
but  Evelyn  believed  it  and  the  man  who  listened 
believed  it,  and  love  was  more  potent  than  cold  reason, 
so  cold  reason  was  barred  out  among  the  shrieking 
hail  of  lead  that  had  failed  to  secure  its  victims. 

Yet  their  idyll  was  soon  cut  short.  A  red  glare 
became  visible  through  the  chinks  of  door  and  windows, 
and  Warden  knew  what  it  meant. 

"They  have  set  fire  to  the  native  huts,"  he  said. 
298 


Wherein  One  Surprise  Begets  Many 

"They  want  to  see  where  our  men  are  stationed  before 
they  try  a  rush.  I  must  go,  sweetheart.  Kiss  me! 
If  it  is  good-by,  I  shall  die  content,  for  I  have  passed 
through  much  tribulation  ere  this  divine  moment  was 
vouchsafed." 

Not  for  all  the  gold  in  Africa  would  she  prove  herself 
unworthy  of  him  in  that  supreme  moment. 

"Go,  then!"  she  said.  "Whether  in  life  or  death 
we  shall  not  be  separated  again." 

Warden  was  at  the  door  when  some  one  sprang 
after  him.  In  the  growing  light  of  the  burning  build- 
ings he  recognized  Colville's  companion  in  the  launch. 

"I  suppose  I  can  count  for  one  in  the  scrum,"  said 
the  stranger.  "Evelyn  promised  to  be  my  sister,  old 

chap,  an'  before  we  all  go  under  I'll  d n  well  down 

a  nigger  or  two  for  the  sake  of  the  family.  Can  you 
spare  a  gun  ?  I'm  a  good  man  at  driven  birds,  an' 
these  black  jokers  are  several  sizes  bigger  than  black- 
cock—  eh,  what?" 


299 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  FIVE  MINUTES'  FIGHT 

FAIRHOLME  was  soon  equipped  with  a  rifle.  He 
was  crouching  behind  a  wooden  pillar  close  to  Warden 
and  Colville,  when  a  Hausa  who  had  incautiously 
exposed  himself  uttered  a  queer  cough  and  pitched 
forward  on  his  face,  shot  through  the  lungs.  The  earl 
took  the  man's  gun  and  bandolier,  but  noticed  that 
none  of  the  others  were  firing,  though  a  number  of 
black  forms  were  dimly  visible  through  the  murk 
created  by  the  smoke  of  the  blazing  huts. 

Warden  was  watching  him. 

"You  will  soon  get  busy,"  he  said.  "They  are 
preparing  for  a  rush.  Pick  out  the  leaders,  the  fellows 
wearing  the  gaudiest  feathers,  or  carrying  a  leopard- 
skin  slung  across  their  shoulders." 

"You're  a  funny  lookin'  bird  yourself,"  chuckled 
Fairholme.  "What  price  you  for  the  Kingdom  Come 
stakes  when  the  niggers  spot  you?  Every  black  son 
of  a  gun  will  want  to  add  you  to  the  bag." 

"That's  right,  Warden,"  put  in  Colville  anxiously. 
"Chuck  away  that  burnous,  and  stick  on  poor 
Toomba's  cap.  Fairholme  can  pull  it  in  with  the 
clearing-rod." 

300 


A  Five  Minutes1  Fight 

"No,"  said  Warden.  "My  Arab's  livery  has  served 
me  in  good  stead  thus  far.  I  shall  not  abandon  it 
until  I  can  borrow  the  togs  of  civilization,  if  ever  I 
need  them.  Hello,  here  they  come!" 

A  slackening  in  the  fusillade  and  a  terrific  outburst 
of  yells  showed  that  the  enemy  were  breaking  cover  in 
force.  In  an  instant  the  compound  seemed  to  become 
alive  with  armed  negroes,  many  of  whom  had  already 
discarded  their  modern  rifles  for  the  more  familiar 
matchet  and  spear. 

Colville  shouted  something  in  the  Hausa  tongue, 
and  his  men,  all  but  two,  leaped  to  their  feet.  Firing 
with  deadly  accuracy  at  such  a  short  range,  they  brought 
down  a  score  of  the  foremost  savages.  Fairholme, 
imbued  with  the  traditions  of  European  warfare, 
naturally  expected  that  the  attack  would  be  pressed 
home,  so  he  set  his  teeth  and  resolved  to  enter  the 
next  world  with  a  royal  bodyguard.  Remembering 
Warden's  instructions,  he  looked  only  for  the  most 
gorgeously  decorated  warriors,  and  found  three  inclu- 
ding Loanda  himself.  Warden,  who  had  secured  the 
rule  of  the  second  wounded  Hausa,  saw  the  earl  bowl 
over  a  ju-ju  man  at  sixty  yards,  no  mean  shooting  at 
night  in  an  atmosphere  rapidly  becoming  smoke-laden. 

"Well  done,  brother-in-law!"  he  cried,  and  in  the 
throes  of  that  deadly  strife  those  two  began  a  friend- 
ship not  to  be  severed  on  this  side  of  the  great  boundary. 
As  the  house  was  attacked  simultaneously  on  three 
sides,  Colville  ran  around  it  to  tell  each  member  of 
his  tiny  force  to  fall  back  on  the  staircase  when  hard 

301 


The  Message 

pressed.  The  instruction  was  given  not  a  second  too 
soon.  Trusting  to  their  great  numbers,  the  men  of 
Oku  came  on  boldly.  They  were  first-rate  soldiers  in 
their  own  way,  they  anticipated  an  easy  victory,  and 
they  were  filled  with  the  frenzied  desire  to  use  steel 
rather  than  lead.  That  is  the  bushman's  tempera- 
ment; killing  loses  half  its  ferocious  joy  if  he  cannot 
"paint"  his  weapon.  This  sheer  lust  of  blood  now 
served  the  little  garrison  in  good  stead.  True,  it  ex- 
posed them  to  the  combined  onslaught  of  hundreds  of 
sinewy  negroes,  but  it  saved  them  from  the  speedy 
extermination  that  must  have  been  their  lot  were  their 
assailants  content  to  shoot  them  down  at  close  quarters. 
In  less  than  a  minute  after  the  stockade  was  passed 
by  the  enemy,  Warden,  Colville,  Fairholme,  Beni 
Kalli  —  who  used  an  adze  he  stumbled  across  in  the 
doorway  of  the  store  —  the  Hausa  sergeant,  and  seven 
of  the  rank  and  file  —  twelve  men  all  told  —  were  in 
a  half  circle  around  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  plying  rifle 
and  bayonet  on  a  wall  of  black  humanity.  The  very 
strength  of  the  attacking  force  placed  it  at  a  disad- 
vantage. The  men  in  front  were  hindered  by  those 
who  surged  up  in  ever-increasing  waves  from  the 
rear.  Every  shot  fired  by  the  defenders  effected  losses 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  general  run  of  wounds 
inflicted  by  musketry  even  in  a  hand-to-hand  engage- 
ment. Though  the  wretched  warriors  who  bore  the 
brunt  of  the  assault  might  have  escaped  bullet  or  butt 
or  bayonet  thrust,  there  was  no  dodging  the  withering 
blasts  of  powder  which  blinded  and  scorched  them, 

302 


A  Five  Minutes'  Fight 

and  smote  their  naked  limbs  with  strange  buffets. 
The  eerie  yells  of  those  who  thought  the  mission  had 
already  fallen  mingled  with  the  screams  of  the  wounded 
and  the  groans  of  the  dying.  The  place  reeked  like  a 
slaughter-house,  and  the  corpses  of  those  who  were 
killed  outright,  or  the  maimed  and  writhing  men  who 
had  sustained  injuries  which  rendered  them  incapable 
of  crawling  out  of  that  packed  space,  formed  a  veri- 
table rampart  around  the  defenders. 

At  this  stage  the  loss  of  a  skilled  leader  like  Loanda 
made  itself  felt  among  his  followers.  He  would  either 
have  set  fire  to  the  unprotected  rear  of  the  building 
or  drawn  off  a  part  of  his  force  and  renewed  the  shoot- 
ing from  a  flank.  Any  such  diversion  by  a  tithe  of 
the  warriors  engaged  would  render  the  position  imme- 
diately untenable  by  the  three  white  men  and  the 
Hausas.  When,  at  last,  the  flanking  maneuver  was 
attempted  by  half  a  dozen  negroes  who  had  extricated 
themselves  unharmed  from  the  press  beneath  the  over- 
hanging roof  of  the  stairs,  the  disastrous  effect  of  their 
strategy  showed  what  might  have  been  accomplished 
but  for  the  smallness  of  their  number.  Colville  fell, 
and  the  Hausa  sergeant,  and  two  men.  A  bullet 
plowed  through  Warden's  hair,  and  another  ripped 
Fairholme's  coat  and  shirt,  and  grazed  his  breast,  and 
these  casualties  resulted  before  the  few  men  attempting 
the  enfilade  had  fired  two  rounds  per  rifle. 

Warden,  alive  to  a  danger  that  promised  instant 
collapse,  slung  Colville  across  his  shoulder  and  gave 
the  order  that  the  few  who  remained  alive  should  fall 

303 


The  Message 

back,  still  fighting  steadily,  until  they  had  mounted 
the  double  stairs  and  gained  the  veranda. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  the  end  had 
come.  His  surprise  had  failed.  He  had  hoped  that 
the  unexpected  presence  of  the  Hausas  and  a  party  of 
white  people  might  damp  the  ardor  of  the  men  of  Oku, 
who  had  looked  forward  to  securing  an  easy  prey  in 
the  mission,  and  who  could  not  possibly  have  antici- 
pated a  stubborn  resistance  by  troops  whom  they 
had  learned  to  fear.  In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a 
hundred  his  belief  would  have  been  justified.  That 
there  was  an  exception  now  arose  from  the  fact  that 
the  tribal  witch-doctors  had  made  much  of  the  modern 
arms  which  the  tribesmen  possessed. 

"You  have  the  white  man's  fetish,"  they  declared. 
"Hitherto  our  ju-ju  has  not  prevailed  against  them. 
To-day  you  are  invulnerable." 

Under  European  leaders  this  mistaken  logic  would 
not  have  caused  a  reversion  to  the  method  of  combined 
attack  so  dear  to  the  native  warrior.  Loanda  and 
some  of  his  lieutenants  had  already  displayed  their 
shrewdness  by  harping  constantly  on  the  necessity  of 
depending  more  on  the  rifle  and  less  on  spear  or  matchet. 
They  would  never  have  permitted  an  advance  in  force 
if  they  were  not  certain  of  their  ability  to  overpower 
the  weak  detachment  of  Hausas  at  the  first  rush.  In 
a  sense,  it  was  Evelyn's  presence  which  brought  about 
this  decision.  Their  Portuguese  ally  had  made  such 
a  point  of  her  capture  uninjured  that  they  wished  to 
gratify  him,  while  there  were  other  forcible  reasons 

304 


A  Five  Minutes'  Fight 

why  they  should  not  waste  too  many  hours  on  the 
siege  of  a  paltry  place  like  the  mission  station. 

Though  the  struggle  thus  far  was  short  and  sharp, 
the  unhappy  people  within  the  walls  were  only  too 
conscious  of  its  developments.  To  their  strained 
senses  it  seemed  that  at  any  moment  the  door  must 
be  burst  open  and  they  swept  into  the  clutches  of 
merciless  savages.  They  could  not  tell  who  was 
living  or  dead.  The  incessant  shooting  and  the  howls 
and  agonized  cries  of  the  negroes  drowned  all  other 
sounds.  Evelyn  thought  she  heard  Warden  addressing 
some  order  to  the  Hausas,  but  she  could  not  be  sure. 
Hume,  in  whom  the  man  was  rapidly  supplanting  the 
missioner,  wished  to  take  a  personal  share  in  the  de- 
fense, but  his  wife  clung  to  him  in  an  agony  of  terror, 
and  implored  him  not  to  leave  her.  While  trying  to 
soothe  the  distracted  woman  he  reflected  that  he  would 
probably  prove  more  of  a  hindrance  than  otherwise  in 
the  fighting  line.  If  he  used  a  gun  at  all  it  must  be 
as  a  cudgel,  for  he  did  not  even  understand  the  mech- 
anism of  the  breech-block. 

Bambuk,  though  a  Mohammedan  and  a  Foulah, 
was  no  longer  a  fighting  man.  He  had  waxed  fat  and 
prosperous,  and  he  waited  now  for  death  with  the 
fatalism  he  had  displayed  ever  since  he  knew  for  cer- 
tain that  the  men  of  Oku  were  bent  on  looting  Kadana. 

Evelyn,  leaning  against  the  door,  with  every  faculty 
on  the  alert  for  the  slightest  indication  of  Warden's 
welfare,  nevertheless  let  her  mind  stray  in  the  most 
bewildering  manner.  She  was  devoid  of  fear.  If 

305 


The  Message 

given  her  choice,  she  would  be  out  there  in  the  thick 
of  the  struggle,  using  her  puny  strength  on  behalf  of 
the  man  she  loved.  Instead,  she  was  condemned  to 
inaction.  The  intolerable  darkness  became  oppressive, 
and  her  memory  flew  back  through  time  and  space  to 
the  sunlit  day  when  she  sat  with  Warden  and  Peter 
Evans  in  the  little  dinghy  of  the  Nancy,  and  saw  the 
grim  face  of  the  Oku  chief  dancing  about  on  the  blue 
waters  of  the  Solent. 

What  a  trivial  incident  it  was  in  some  respects  — 
yet  what  a  mighty  upheaval  it  portended!  No  matter 
in  what  direction  her  whirling  thoughts  took  her,  the 
carved  calabash  seemed  to  be  mixed  up  with  events  in 
a  way  that  was  hardly  credible.  It  brought  her  and 
Warden  together.  That  chance  meeting  on  a  summer 
morning  gave  them  a  bond  of  interest  which  quickly 
strengthened  into  affection  and  love.  Then  it  led 
them  into  the  intricacies  of  a  political  plot,  sent  War- 
den to  London,  caused  him  to  encounter  Mrs.  Laing, 
with  all  the  heartache  and  misery  that  resulted  there- 
from, and  cast  him  ashore  at  Rabat  to  become  a  slave 
and  a  desert  wanderer.  She  herself  had  been  equally 
its  sport.  Her  knowledge  of  the  men  of  Oku  alone 
induced  Figuero  and  Baumgartner  to  conspire  against 
her.  If  she  had  never  seen  the  gourd  it  was  more 
than  probable  that  she  would  never  have  gazed  on  the 
Benue  River.  And  how  persistently  that  weird  crea- 
tion of  Domenico  Garcia's  skill  had  clung  to  either 
Warden  or  herself.  It  was  not  to  be  shaken  off.  Even 
now,  when  they  were  on  the  very  threshold  of  death, 

306 


There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  the  end  had  come 

Page  304 


A  Five  Minutes'  Fight 

it  was  lying  there  in  her  room,  shrouded  in  a  canvas 
case.  She  could  almost  see  its  evil  scowl  everlastingly 
threatening  mankind. 

Though  a  fresh  outburst  of  firing  startled  her  highly 
strung  nerves  she  felt  somewhat  of  a  thrill  of  super- 
natural awe  at  the  fancy  that  the  carved  image  of  the 
by-gone  King  of  Benin  had  forced  its  way  back  to  the 
actual  locality  in  which  its  human  prototype  had  ruled 
millions  of  those  very  men  who  were  now  clamoring 
for  the  lives  of  herself  and  her  companions. 

It  was  a  strange  notion,  and  it  dominated  her  for  a 
moment  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  Could  it  be  pos- 
sible that  there  were  subtle  forces  at  work  of  whose 
existence  she  was  wholly  unaware?  Had  these  un- 
happy blacks  some  power  at  command  which  was 
denied  to  those  who  lorded  it  over  them  ?  Of  late  she 
had  read  a  good  deal  concerning  the  supposed  origin 
of  Obi  rites  in  West  African  fetish- worship.  She  had 
never  seen  a  real  ju-ju  man  until  that  afternoon,  but 
his  appearance  and  antics  were  sufficiently  striking  to 
create  a  vivid  impression  quite  apart  from  the  tragic 
sequel  to  his  incantation.  The  queer  belief  that  the 
calabash  was  in  some  degree  responsible  for  the  blood- 
shed going  on  within  a  few  feet  of  where  she  stood  so 
took  hold  of  her  that  she  found  the  continued  darkness 
unbearable. 

"Mr.  Hume,"  she  said,  forcing  her  parched  lips  to 
utter  the  words,  "don't  you  think  the  lamp  might  be 
lit  now?  It  cannot  make  much  difference.  We  are 
nearing  the  end." 

307 


The  Message 

For  reply  Hume  struck  a  match,  and  applied  it  to 
the  wick.  The  comfortable  and  spacious  room  sud- 
denly assumed  its  familiar  guise.  It  looked  quiet  and 
home-like.  The  turmoil  raging  beneath  seemed  to 
be  absurdly  incongruous  —  a  horrible  dream  rather 
than  a  dread  reality. 

Yet  the  lamp  was  hardly  well  alight  ere  Warden's 
voice  came  from  the  veranda. 

"Open  the  door,  Hume!"  he  cried.  "Colville  is 
wounded!" 

Evelyn,  owing  to  her  nearness,  flung  wide  the  door 
before  the  missionary  could  reach  it.  Warden  stood 
there,  ghastly  to  behold,  but  still  apparently  free  from 
any  grave  injury.  His  left  arm  encircled  Colville's 
limp  body,  and  in  his  right  hand  was  a  gun-barrel 
from  which  the  stock  had  been  broken  off.  In  his 
Arab  costume,  travel-soiled  and  blood-stained,  he 
looked  the  incarnation  of  fearsome  war,  while  the 
seemingly  lifeless  form  he  carried  added  a  note  of 
horror  to  his  appalling  aspect. 

But  when  he  saw  Evelyn  he  actually  smiled.  She 
caught  the  tender  look  in  his  eyes  through  the  mask 
of  blood  and  dirt  and  perspiration. 

"I  fear  it  is  all  up  with  us,  sweetheart,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  think  Colville  is  dead,  but  it  is  only  a  matter 
of  seconds  for  him  and  the  rest  of  us.  Have  you  a 
revolver?  Give  me  that  lamp.  It  may  help  a  little. 
Under  this  low  roof  we  cannot  distinguish  friend  from 
foe." 

He  spoke  so  gently,  with  such  well-balanced  modu- 
308 


A  Five  Minutes'  Fight 

lation,  that  he  might  have  been  standing  at  the  door 
of  some  peaceful  villa  overlooking  the  Thames,  with 
no  more  serious  purport  hi  his  words  than  to  light  the 
way  for  a  guest.  But  a  rush  and  a  furious  melee 
on  the  stairs  showed  what  manner  of  guest  might  be 
expected,  and  that  ominous  question  anent  a  revolver 
was  not  lost  on  Evelyn.  Hume  took  Colville  into  his 
arms,  and  Warden,  without  waiting  for  the  lamp, 
turned  to  reinforce  the  five  men  who  now  held  the 
enemy  at  bay. 

The  girl,  with  a  Berserk  courage  worthy  of  her 
ancestry,  snatched  up  the  lamp  and  ran  with  it  to  the 
veranda.  Attached  to  a  pillar  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
was  a  bracket  on  which  a  light  was  placed  each  night 
in  the  rainy  season  to  attract  the  insects  that  would 
otherwise  invade  the  house.  She  put  the  lamp  there, 
and  stole  one  awestricken  glance  at  the  furious  con- 
flict raging  on  both  sides  of  the  lower  landing.  A 
bullet,  fired  from  a  muzzle-loader,  sang  past  her  face. 
She  almost  washed  that  a  truer  aim  had  found  heart 
or  brain,  because  then  she  would  be  spared  the  affright- 
ing alternative  suggested  by  Warden.  If  she  did  not 
die  by  her  own  hand,  would  the  men  of  Oku  kill  her  ? 
She  feared  they  would  not! 

For  an  instant  the  rays  of  the  lamp  enabled  the 
defense  to  beat  back  the  first  surge  of  what  must  surely 
be  the  final  and  successful  assault.  A  gigantic  native, 
whom  she  did  not  know  —  but  who  was  swinging  an 
adze  in  fine  style  by  Warden's  side,  turned  and  gazed 
at  her.  It  was  Beni  Kalli,  Warden's  negro  companion 

309 


The  Message 

in  the  escape  from  Lektawa,  and  now  his  most  devoted 
henchman.  He  had  seldom  seen  a  white  woman,  and 
never  one  in  any  way  resembling  Evelyn.  To  his 
untutored  mind,  she  was  a  spirit. 

"Now,  may  Allah  be  praised!"  he  cried  joyfully, 
"we  shall  whip  these  dogs  of  pagans  back  to  their 
swamp,  for  mine  eyes  have  seen  one  of  the  lily  maids 
who  tend  the  Prophet's  flock  in  Paradise." 

Warden,  who  thought  his  gigantic  retainer  had 
gone  fey,  looked  around  and  found  that  Evelyn  was 
immediately  behind  him,  though  on  a  slightly  higher 
level.  She  was  standing  in  a  most  perilous  position. 
There  was  a  space  of  at  least  three  feet  between  the 
lower  edge  of  the  main  roof  and  the  slight  scantling 
that  protected  the  staircase  from  the  tremendous 
rainstorms  of  the  tropics,  and  any  one  standing  a  little 
way  back  from  the  house  could  not  fail  to  see  her. 
He  forgot  the  heartbroken  advice  he  had  just  given 
her.  He  realized  only  that  the  woman  he  loved  was 
in  mortal  peril. 

"Go  back!"  he  shouted.  "For  God's  sake,  go  in 
and  bolt  the  door!  You  will  be  shot  from  the  com- 
pound!" 

A  negro  leaped  round  the  corner  of  the  stairs  and 
struck  at  him  with  a  matchet.  Beni  Kalli  was  just  in 
time  to  parry  the  blow.  Then  the  adze  whirled,  and 
buried  itself  in  the  man's  skull.  Before  it  could  be 
withdrawn  a  spear  darted  up  viciously,  but  Warden's 
broken  rifle  diverted  the  thrust  and  a  Hausa  got  his 
bayonet  home.  Nevertheless,  a  dozen  more  negroes 

310 


A  Five  Minutes'1  Fight 

were  forcing  their  way  up  on  both  sides.  Fairholme, 
valiant  little  aristocrat,  was  borne  down  and  fell, 
utterly  exhausted,  at  Evelyn's  feet.  A  Hausa  was 
shot  through  the  head  and  dropped  across  Fairholme's 
body.  Three  men,  Warden,  Beni  Kalli,  and  a  Hausa, 
now  alone  held  at  bay  the  human  wolves  who  saw 
victory  within  their  grasp. 

Evelyn  refused  to  re-enter  the  house.  She  meant 
to  die  there  by  her  lover's  side.  Why  did  not  merciful 
death  come  quickly  ?  It  would  be  better  if  she  passed 
before  him.  She  breathed  a  prayer  that  God  would 
vouchsafe  this  grace,  for  her  woman's  heart  revolted 
from  the  thought  that  she  should  see  him  killed.  In 
a  very  trance  of  hope  that  her  wish  might  be  granted, 
she  looked  into  the  moonlit  compound  and  stretched 
out  her  arms  pitifully,  for  she  well  knew  that  while 
Warden  lived  no  kindly  spear  or  native  sword  would 
free  her  soul  for  that  eternal  meeting. 

But  the  men  of  Oku  were  running,  running  for  their 
lives  and  throwing  away  their  cherished  rifles,  lest 
they  should  not  be  able  to  run  fast  enough.  Through 
the  drifting  smoke  of  the  burning  huts  and  the  haze 
now  spreading  up  the  bank  from  the  river,  she  saw 
little  squads  of  dark-clothed  Hausas  rushing  in  pur- 
suit of  the  flying  blacks.  Greatest  marvel  of  all, 
scattered  among  the  Hausas  were  a  number  of  British 
sailors.  There  was  no  mistaking  their  uniforms  or 
the  exceeding  zest  with  which  they  entered  into  the 
last  phase  of  a  first-rate  fight. 

When  the  wondrous  fact  that  succor  was  at  hand 
311 


The  Message 

penetrated  the  ecstasy  of  that  mute  appeal  to  death, 
she  did  not  cry  it  aloud  to  Warden.  Not  only  would 
she  imperil  both  him  and  his  two  companions  by  dis- 
tracting their  attention  from  the  cut-arid-thrust  combat 
on  the  stairs,  but,  sad  to  relate  of  a  tender-hearted 
girl,  she  found  a  delirious  satisfaction  in  watching  the 
sweep  of  gun-barrel  and  adze  and  the  wicked  plunging 
of  the  Hausa  bayonet.  Why  should  not  these  ravening 
beasts  be  punished  ?  What  harm  had  she  or  any  one 
in  the  mission  done  them  that  they  should  howl  so 
frantically  for  their  blood  ? 

But  she  prayed  —  oh,  how  she  prayed !  —  that  the 
relieving  force  would  hurry.  She  could  not  tell  that 
officers  and  men  of  the  white  contingent  were  astounded 
by  the  spectacle  of  a  slight,  girlish  figure,  robed  in 
muslin  and  seemingly  in  no  fear  of  her  life,  standing 
under  the  bright  rays  of  a  lamp  on  the  veranda  of  the 
beleaguered  mission-house.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  they  would  see  her;  and,  simply  because  she  was 
there,  they  by  no  means  expected  to  find  a  desperate 
fight  being  waged  in  the  narrow  space  of  the  staircase. 
But  they  soon  woke  up  to  the  facts  when  the  foremost 
man  came  near  enough  to  discover  the  black  figures 
wedged  in  both  gangways. 

"  Come  on ! "  he  yelled.  "  This  is  what  we're  looking 
for!" 

"No  shooting,  boys!"  roared  a  jubilant  naval  lieu- 
enant.  "Bayonets  only!  Dig  'em  out!" 

And  dug  out  they  were,  in  a  manner  not  prescribed 
by  the  drill  book,  until  the  passages  were  clear,  and 

312 


A  Five  Minutes'  Fight 

the  newcomers  were  marveling  at  the  way  in  which 
the  mission -house  was  held,  and  Warden  was  free  to 
lay  aside  that  useful  gun-barrel  and  stoop  to  lift  the 
dead  Hausa  off  Fairholme's  almost  breathless  body. 

The  officer,  who  was  first  up  the  stairs,  looked  round 
for  some  one  in  authority.  He  saw  an  Arab  and  a 
girl  supporting  a  white  man  between  them.  To  his 
profound  amazement,  he  heard  the  Arab  say: 

"He  is  all  right,  dear.  Those  cuts  are  superficial, 
just  like  my  own.  But  he  is  thoroughly  spent.  I 
am  almost  at  the  end  of  my  own  tether,  though  I  was 
hard  as  nails  till  that  wretched  fever  bowled  me  over 
in  Oku." 

"  But,  Arthur  darling,"  he  was  even  more  astounded 
at  hearing  from  the  girl's  lips,  "where  have  the  troops 
come  from  ?  What  special  decree  of  Providence  brought 
them  to  our  rescue?" 

"Here  is  some  one  who  can  tell  us?"  said  Warden, 
looking  at  the  lieutenant,  while  he  placed  Fairholme 
on  a  chair  in  the  living-room. 

"May  I  ask  who  you  are?"  demanded  the  sailor, 
finding  his  tongue  but  slowly. 

"My  name  is  Warden,  Captain  Arthur  Warden,  of 
the  Southern  Nigeria  Protectorate  —  and  yours?" 

"Warden!    Are  you  in  earnest?" 

"Never  more  so.     Won't  you  follow  my  example?" 

"Oh,  I'm  Bellairs,  of  the  Valiant" 

"Did  Captain  Mortimer  send  you?"   cried  Evelyn, 
who  was  mightily  afraid  that  the  moment  she  spoke 
she  would  burst  into  tears. 
313 


The  Message 

"Well  —  yes.  You  are  Miss  Dane,  I  suppose? 
And  this  is  Lord  Fairholme.  Is  poor  Colville  gone?" 

"Not  very  far,"  said  a  weak  voice  from  an  inner 
room.  "My  collar-bone  is  broken  and  I've  lost  chips 
off  several  sections,  but  I'll  be  able  to  shove  along 
with  my  arm  in  a  sling." 

"Has  anybody  got  any  liquor?"  murmured  another 
weak  voice  from  a  chair.  "I  don't  care  what  it  is 
—  even  water.  I've  got  a  thirst  I  wouldn't  sell  for  a 
pony." 

Hume,  who  had  fallen  on  his  knees  when  he  heard 
the  strange  voices,  and  looked  out  to  find  that  the 
battle  was  ended,  rose  and  went  to  a  cupboard. 

"I  have  here  two  quarts  of  champagne  which  I 
meant  to  keep  for  cases  of  serious  illness,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  think  any  of  us  will  ever  be  so  near  death 
again  until  the  scythe-bearer  comes  and  will  not  be 
denied,  so  if  any  of  you  gentlemen  are  expert  at  opening 
these  bottles " 

Fairholme  recovered  instantly. 

"Hand  one  here,"  he  gasped.  "I'm  a  double  blue 
at  drawin'  corks  and  emptyin'  a  bottle  of  bubbly." 

Hume,  who  had  lighted  a  second  lamp,  produced 
some  glasses.  Then  he  glanced  at  a  clock. 

"Can  it  be  possible  that  all  this  dreadful  business 
has  lasted  only  four  minutes?"  he  asked . 

"Four  minutes!"  cried  the  sailor.  "Why,  we  heard 
firing  in  this  direction  nearly  twenty  minutes  ago!" 

"That  was  the  first  round,  when  the  blacks  tried  to 
frighten  us  into  submission,"  said  Warden.  "But, 

314 


A  Five  Minutes'  Fight 

now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  the  scrap  itself  cannot 
have  occupied  many  seconds  more  than  your  estimate, 
Hume." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  five  accounted 
for  that  heap  of " 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  Evelyn  and  Mrs.  Hume. 
The  latter  was  striving  to  dry  her  eyes  while  she  sipped 
some  of  the  wine.  Poor  lady!  She  was  not  cast  in 
the  heroic  mold,  nor  had  she  ever  pretended  to  be. 

"There  were  more  than  five  of  us,"  explained 
Warden  sadly.  "Eleven  of  Colville's  Hausas  are 
down." 

"Some  of  them  can  only  be  wounded,"  said  Evelyn 
"Let  us  go  and  attend  to  them." 

"Better  not,  Miss  Dane,"  interposed  the  sailor 
hastily.  He  had  seen  things  in  the  compound  which 
rendered  it  advisable  for  the  women  to  remain  indoors 
until  the  river  crocodiles  had  claimed  their  tribute. 
"I  will  tell  some  of  my  men  to  look  after  them,"  he 
explained,  "and  our  surgeon  will  soon  be  here.  Just 
now  he  is  busy  on  board  the  launches." 

"What?  Have  you  been  engaged,  too?"  asked 
Warden. 

"By  Jove,  we  dropped  in  for  the  biggest  surprise  I 
ever  heard  of.  Just  fancy  being  blazed  at  with  Nor- 
denfeldts  by  niggers!  Luckily  for  us,  we  came  on 
them  unawares,  and  two  of  the  canoes  were  headed 
up-stream.  The  row  that  was  going  on  here  stopped 
them  from  hearing  the  engines,  or  I  must  candidly 
confess  that  if  they  had  been  ready  for  us  they  might 

315 


The  Message 

have  sunk  the  flotilla  before  we  came  within  striking 
distance.  As  it  was,  they  got  in  a  few  rounds  that 
raked  a  couple  of  boats  fore  and  aft,  before  we  got 
busy  with  a  Gatling.  I  suppose  you  didn't  catch  the 
racket  on  account  of  the  dust  up  here." 

"But  why  in  the  name  of  wonder,  are  you  here  at 
all?"  demanded  Warden. 

"Well,  my  ship  reported  that  a  yacht  called  the  Sans 
Souci  had  landed  a  lot  of  arms  and  ammunition  in  a 
creek  in  neighboring  territories.  That  made  the  author- 
ities think  a  bit.  But  one  of  your  fellows  who  accom- 
panied us  told  me  that  the  real  scare  came  when  a 
Mrs.  Laing  —  she  knows  you,  Warden,  and  she  had 
been  living  some  weeks  at  Lokoja  —  was  seized  with 
blackwater  fever.  She  was  pretty  bad,  so  she  sent 
for  the  Commissioner  to  put  her  affairs  in  order. 
Among  other  things,  she  warned  him  that  some  Por- 
tuguese scoundrel  was  undoubtedly  planning  a  rising 
at  Oku,  and  indeed  all  along  the  line  of  the  Benue 
and  right  through  Southern  Nigeria.  There  had  been 
some  rather  curious  ju-ju  performances  recently  in  a 
few  of  the  seaboard  districts,  so  it  was  decided  to 
send  a  strong  column  up  the  Benue  to  investigate 
matters.  We  dropped  detachments  of  Hausas  at 
every  station  we  passed,  and  had  intended  halting 
some  miles  below  here  to-night,  when  we  heard  the 
drums  going  in  the  bush.  Your  Hausa  man — Hudson 
his  name  is  —  urged  us  to  push  on  this  far.  Jolly 
good  job  we  did." 

"Has  Mrs.  Laing  recovered?"  asked  Evelyn  fear- 
316 


A  Five  Minutes'  Fight 

fully.    The  sailor  hesitated  a  moment.    He  seemed 
to  leave  something  unsaid. 

"Oh,  no.  She  went  under  in  a  day.  Sad  thing. 
I  have  never  met  her.  An  awfully  nice  woman, 
Hudson  says." 

"I  am  sorry,"  sobbed  Evelyn.  "She  was  too  young 
to  die,  and  she  has  not  had  much  happiness  in  her 
life." 

"Let  there  be  no  more  talk  of  death  —  I  am  weary 
of  it,"  said  Warden  cheerily,  and  he  broke  off  into 
Arabic. 

"What  sayest  thou,  Beni  Kalli?  Hast  seen  enough 
of  the  black  camel  since  we  left  Lektawa  together  ? " 

"Verily,  Seyyid,"  grinned  the  native.  "I  thought 
you  and  I  should  mount  him  in  company  to-night." 

"Can  you  do  me  the  exceeding  favor  of  lending  me 
a  suit  of  clothes?"  said  Warden,  seeing  that  Bellairs 
was  about  his  own  height. 

"Certainly.  Come  down  to  my  launch.  We  ought 
to  hold  a  council  of  war,  I  think.  By  the  way,  I  sup- 
pose the  ladies  will  not  stir  out  of  this  room  till  your 
return." 

"No,"  said  Evelyn  promptly.  "We  shall  prepare 
supper,  but  if  you  keep  Captain  Warden  more  than 
half  an  hour  I  shall  come  for  him." 

"You  must  remain  here,  sweetheart,"  said  the  grim- 
looking  Arab.  "There  is  a  lot  to  be  done  outside. 
Be  sure  I  shall  join  you  without  delay.  Come  along, 
Bellairs,  and  rummage  your  kit  —  there's  a  good 
chap." 

317 


As  they  crossed  the  compound  together,  the  sailor 
appeared  to  make  up  his  mind  to  discharge  a  disagree- 
able duty. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I  hope  I  am  not  mixing 
matters  absurdly,  but  are  you  the  Warden  that  Mrs. 
Laing  was  once  engaged  to  ?  " 

"Yes  —  more  than  ten  years  ago.     What  of  it?" 

"Well,  she  has  left  you  everything  she  possessed  — 
a  regular  pile,  somebody  told  me." 

"On  condition  that  I  do  not  marry  Evelyn  Dane,  I 
suppose?"  said  Warden,  who  treated  the  sailor's 
astonishing  announcement  as  though  the  receipt  of  a 
thumping  legacy  were  an  e very-day  affair. 

"I  haven't  heard  anything  of  a  fly  in  the  amber," 
said  Bellairs.  "Hudson  knows  all  about  it  —  he  will 
be  able  to  tell  you." 

But  Warden  had  no  word  to  say  to  Hudson  con- 
cerning Rosamund  Laing  or  her  bequest.  His  mind 
was  too  full  of  the  greater  wonder  that  Evelyn  and  he 
should  meet  on  the  Benue;  that  it  had  fallen  to  him 
to  snatch  her  from  the  clutches  of  the  men  of  Oku. 


318 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   SETTLEMENT 

WHEN  Warden  found  that  the  expedition  consisted 
of  a  hundred  sailors  and  over  three  hundred  Hausas, 
he  was  anxious  that  an  advance  should  be  made  on 
Oku  at  once.  The  town  lay  in  a  bush  clearing  on 
high  land  overlooking  the  Benue,  not  many  miles 
distant  from  the  mission  station.  He  argued  that  he 
and  Beni  Kalli  could  guide  the  troops  by  the  bush 
paths,  and  that  an  attack  carried  out  at  dawn  would 
demoralize  an  enemy  already  shaken  by  an  unforeseen 
"epulse  at  Kadana. 

Every  one  admitted  that  he  was  right  from  the  mili- 
tary point  of  view;  but  Hudson,  the  political  officer 
accompanying  the  column,  shirked  the  responsibility 
of  taking  a  step  that  implied  the  existence  of  a  tribal 
war.  He  argued  that  while  they  were  fully  justified 
in  driving  off  the  assailants  of  the  mission  and  in 
demanding  the  punishment  of  those  engaged  in  it, 
together  with  the  fullest  compensation  for  loss  of  life 
and  property,  yet  they  had  no  proof  that  the  King  of 
Oku  sanctioned  the  raid. 

"When  he  refuses  our  terms,"  he  said,  "we  shall 
destroy  his  town  and  depose  him  if  he  escapes  with 

319 


The  Message 

his  life.     Under  the  circumstances,  I  cannot  sanction 
a  forward  movement  until  negotiations  have  failed." 

Bellairs,  of  course,  had  to  take  his  orders  from  the 
administration,  and  Warden  had  no  power  to  over- 
ride the  man  whom  the  Government  had  deputed  to 
visit  Oku.  He  knew  that  Loanda,  second  only  in 
importance  to  M'Wanga,  was  among  the  slain.  He 
had  seen  M'Wanga  himself  exercising  his  savage 
warriors  day  after  day  and  taking  care  that  they  were 
taught  how  to  handle  the  modern  weapons  to  which 
they  were  unaccustomed.  He  was  aware  of  the  exact 
date  named  for  the  rising,  and  was  prevented  only  by 
several  weeks'  delirium  of  fever  from  stealing  off  down 
•stream  in  good  tune  to  warn  the  authorities.  But  he 
was  not  in  his  own  territory,  for  the  Benue  runs  through 
Northern  Nigeria  while  he  was  attached  to  the  Southern 
Protectorate,  and,  above  all,  he  was  a  soldier,  to  whom 
obedience  was  the  first  duty.  So  he  refrained  from 
weakening  Hudson's  position  by  demonstrating  how 
mistaken  was  the  decision  arrived  at.  He  even  hoped 
that,  in  some  mysterious  way,  matters  might  be  ad- 
justed without  further  slaughter. 

The  proper  course  to  adopt  was  to  strike  hard 
and  promptly.  Failing  that,  he  trusted  to  the  strange 
workings  of  the  native  mind  to  bring  about  a  peaceful 
settlement.  Though  strong  in  spirit  he  was  broken 
in  body.  He  had  done  in  five  months  that  which  a 
few  men  had  taken  years  to  accomplish,  while  the 
majority  of  those  who  essayed  the  task  had  failed, 
and  paid  the  penalty  of  failure  by  dying. 

320 


The  Settlement 

When  the  officers  of  the  expedition  gathered  in  the 
mission  that  night  and  listened  to  his  story,  their  minds 
went  back  to  the  days  of  Mungo  Park,  and  Clapperton, 
and  Lander,  and  Barth,  and  the  rest  of  the  famous 
band  of  explorers  who  had  traversed  the  wilds  of 
the  West  African  hinterland  during  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  and  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
turies. 

Nothing  to  equal  Warden's  journey  had  been  done 
of  recent  years.  It  stood  alone,  a  record  of  almost 
unexampled  fortitude  and  endurance. 

He  would  never  have  reached  the  upper  waters  of 
the  Niger  were  it  not  for  the  blue  cotton  wrap  taken 
from  the  Prophet  of  El  Hamra  when  that  unamiable 
person  was  left  bound  and  gagged  at  Lektawa.  So 
deeply  had  the  Blue  Man's  repute  penetrated  into  the 
desert  that  among  Mohammedan  tribes  the  mere  sight 
of  his  robe  was  more  powerful  than  an  armed  escort. 
In  a  hasty  search  through  the  Prophet's  apartment, 
Warden  found  his  own  revolver,  two  Remington  re- 
peating rifles  with  a  supply  of  cartridges,  and  a  stock 
of  gold  dust  in  quills,  the  most  portable  form  of  desert 
currency.  The  blue  rag  supplied  moral,  the  arms  and 
gold  material  aid,  but  the  tremendous  journey  still 
remained  an  undertaking  fraught  with  every  possible 
danger.  Not  until  the  small  party  reached  Timbuktu 
could  they  regard  themselves  as  possessing  even  a 
moderate  chance  of  ultimate  success.  In  that  city 
Beni  Kalli  left  his  daughter  with  relatives.  No  con- 
sideration would  part  him  from  the  Seyyid.  Here 

321 


The  Message 

was  a  master  worth  serving,  one  who  never  thought 
only  of  himself,  but  who  was  ready  at  any  moment  to 
risk  life  or  limb  in  aid  of  those  who  were  faithful  to 
his  interests.  Moreover,  he  showed  rare  sport,  and 
Beni  Kalli  was  a  born  adventurer. 

So  the  pair  came  down  the  Niger,  and,  when  Warden 
learned  that  matters  were  quiet  at  Oku,  he  formed 
the  daring  plan  of  preserving  his  incognito  even  from 
the  British  officials  at  towns  in  the  more  settled  regions. 
He  fancied  that  by  maintaining  his  pose  as  an  Arab 
firebrand  he  might  venture  to  enter  Oku  itself.  He 
had  spoken  nothing  but  Arabic  during  so  many  months 
that  he  was  now  far  more  glib  in  the  language  than 
many  genuine  Arabs  who  could  not  boast  his  expe- 
rience of  diverse  tribes  and  varying  dialects.  He 
deemed  it  best  to  let  none  know  of  his  scheme.  The 
slightest  hint  that  he  had  crossed  the  Sahara  would 
quickly  find  its  way  to  Oku,  and  it  was  his  safeguard 
throughout  that  the  Mahdi  of  the  Atlas  had  sent  him 
to  carry  the  fiery  torch  of  Islam  to  the  remotest  strong- 
holds of  the  faith.  Oku  was  frankly  pagan,  its  people 
cannibals  when  occasion  served,  but  between  them 
and  far-off  Morocco  lay  the  strong  link  of  hatred  of 
the  white  man's  rule. 

Evelyn  listened  in  silence  while  her  lover  discoursed. 
Her  eyes  shone  and  her  lips  were  parted.  More  than 
once,  when  some  deft  hint  conveyed  to  her  that  his 
thoughts  dwelt  ever  with  her,  a  tender  little  smile  told 
him  that  she  understood. 

Colville,  who  insisted  on  joining  them  when  the 
322 


surgeon  had  dressed  his  injuries  —  for  a  ricochetting 
bullet  had  torn  a  jagged  wound  in  his  shoulder  as  well 
as  broken  his  collar-bone  —  had  heard  from  Lagos 
something  of  the  gourd.  He  asked  Warden  what  had 
become  of  it. 

"It  is  among  my  belongings  at  Lagos,"  he  said. 
"At  least,  I  hope  so.  The  skipper  of  the  Water  Witch 
was  a  decent  sort  of  fellow " 

"It  is  here,"  said  Evelyn  quietly. 

"Here!" 

Half  a  dozen  voices  cried  in  concert,  but  she  was 
looking  at  Warden. 

"You  gave  it  to  me  at  Cowes?"  she  went  on. 

"Yes,  I  did,  but " 

"But  I  refused  it.  Well,  when  they  told  me  at 
Lagos  that  you  were  surely  lost  in  the  desert,  I  asked 
for  it.  I  —  I  —  almost  believed  it  would  bring  us 
together  again." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  it,"  chimed  in  Fairholme. 

She  was  strangely  reluctant  at  first,  and  her  unwill- 
ingness to  produce  that  sinister  carving  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  for  she  had  seen  sufficient  of  the  men  of 
Oku  during  the  past  few  hours  to  disturb  her  dreams 
for  many  a  year.  But  Warden  joined  in  the  chorus 
of  persuasion,  and  she  brought  the  canvas  bag  from 
her  room. 

"Please  open  it,"  she  said  to  her  lover.  "I  dare  not. 
Though  I  confess  to  an  uncanny  confidence  in  its 
power,  I  am  still  afraid  of  it." 

He  drew  forth  the  calabash  with  a  sudden  move- 
323 


The  Message 

ment,  hoping  to  startle  some  of  the  onlookers  by  the 
extraordinary  vitality  of  Domenico  Garcia's  master- 
piece, but  Evelyn  alone  was  affected,  and  she  uttered 
a  cry  of  dismay. 

"It  is  ruined!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  moist  heat  has 
destroyed  the  lacquer!  Even  the  eyes  have  gone. 
Oh,  Arthur,  please  do  throw  it  away  this  time.  The 
thing  is  dead!" 

In  her  excitement  she  had  used  exactly  the  right 
phrase.  The  man  of  Oku  was  dead,  in  fact  decom- 
posed. His  face  had  melted  away,  his  mosaic  eyes 
had  fallen  out,  the  mocking  smile  worthy  of  a  triumph- 
ant demon  had  faded  from  his  thick  lips.  In  truth, 
the  mask  on  the  gourd  was  a  mere  travesty  of  its  former 
self. 

Warden  was  quite  as  bewildered  as  the  girl. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  "that  is  really  the  most  amazing 
coincidence  I  have  ever  known.  It  knocks  any  of  my 
adventures  into  a  cocked  hat.  Just  think  of  it  —  this 
thing  lived,  I  tell  you.  It  was  a  superb  creature  of 
genius.  It  must  have  been  found  two  hundred  years 
ago  when  some  Portuguese  or  Spaniards  looted  Benin. 
It  was  brought  to  England  only  to  be  lost  in  a  sailing 
ship  that  foundered  on  the  east  side  of  the  Isle  of 
Wight.  After  passing  a  couple  of  centuries  under  the 
sea,  it  bobbed  up  serenely  one  day  last  August,  dis- 
turbed from  its  resting-place  when  the  Emperor's 
yacht  struck  the  sunken  wreck.  I  firmly  believe  it 
was  made  within  a  few  miles  of  this  very  place,  yet  it 
survived  through  the  ages  until  the  hour  when  the  Oku 

324 


The  Settlement 

power  is  broken  for  ever,  and  now  it  is  destroyed. 
Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  it?  Surely  this  is  a 
thing  not  dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy." 

None  but  Evelyn  among  those  present  could  share 
his  opinion.  It  was  impossible  for  any  one  who  had 
not  seen  the  calabash  on  the  deck  of  the  Nancy  to 
picture  the  malign  fascination  of  that  graven  face. 

But  Warden  was  convinced  of  his  theory.  To 
please  his  lady,  he  bade  Beni  Kalli  take  the  gourd  and 
throw  it  on  the  smoldering  embers  of  the  mission 
huts.  And  so  ended  the  pilgrimage  of  the  grim  con- 
trivance fashioned  by  Domenico  Garcia  to  carry  his 
story  to  the  world  that  had  forgotten  him.  It  perished 
in  the  ashes  of  the  old  Kadana,  on  the  site  where  a 
new  enterprise  would  soon  mark  the  practical  incep- 
tion of  Hume's  day-dream. 

Nor  was  the  hour  far  distant  when  all  in  that  room 
remembered  Warden's  emphatic  words.  Next  day 
came  messengers  from  the  King  of  Oku.  His  majesty 
deplored  the  excesses  caused  by  the  evil  counsels  of 
certain  professors  of  ju-ju.  These  men,  difficult  to 
control,  were  aided  and  abetted  by  a  notorious  Por- 
tuguese half-caste,  one  Miguel  Figuero  to  wit,  who  had 
helped  the  Oku  rebels  by  importing  arms  from  foreign 
territory  and  generally  disturbing  the  peace  of  the 
kingdom. 

"I  have  now  dealt  with  Figuero  and  the  others," 
said  M'Wanga  through  his  envoys.  "They  will 
trouble  the  land  no  further." 

He  meant  that  he  had  nailed  them  to  trees  as  a 
325 


The  Message 

guarantee  of  good  faith,  when,  in  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning,  he  grew  fully  assured  that  his  guns  were 
useless,  his  river  flotilla  captured,  and  his  army  broken 
up.  Unfortunately  for  the  success  of  his  sudden 
conversion  to  British  notions  of  law  and  order,  that 
which  was  only  a  minor  disturbance  in  a  native  state 
assumed  the  gravest  political  significance  when  a 
number  of  troops  of  a  foreign  power  crossed  the  border 
at  various  points  with  the  avowed  object  of  restoring 
peace  to  a  province  in  which  the  armed  might  of 
Britain  was  set  at  nought. 

The  strongest  party  of  these  unlooked-for  allies 
marched  on  Oku.  Its  commandant,  Count  von  Rip- 
penbach,  seemed  to  be  intensely  surprised  when  he 
found  the  city  in  the  grip  of  a  British  column,  and  its 
king  a  prisoner  awaiting  trial  by  court-martial.  He 
was  not  only  surprised,  but  intensely  chagrined,  and 
was  so  unwilling  to  return  to  his  own  territory  that 
there  were  "alarums  and  excursions"  in  various  centers 
of  diplomacy  before  he  swallowed  his  wrath,  invited 
the  British  officers  to  a  farewell  dinner,  and  marched 
back  to  the  Cameroons.  M'Wanga  was  found  guilty 
of  murder  and  high  treason,  and  was  duly  hanged  in 
front  of  his  own  residence.  Pana,  the  third  of  the 
negro  visitors  to  Cowes,  was  banished  to  St.  Vincent, 
and  the  clearance  among  the  witch-doctors  which 
Lord  Fairholme  so  ably  initiated  was  carried  a  good 
deal  further. 

Among  the  effects  of  the  arch-plotter  Figuero  were 
found  documents  of  such  highly  inflammable  nature 

326 


The  Settlement 

that  they  were  promptly  interned  in  the  deepest  dun- 
geons of  the  Record  Office.  But  some  of  his  belong- 
ings had  a  more  direct  interest  than  state  papers  for 
the  two  people  with  whose  fortunes  he  was  so  curiously 
bound  up.  Warden  came  across  another  copy  of  the 
very  page  of  the  newspaper  he  bought  at  Cowes  wherein 
was  described  the  accident  to  the  imperial  yacht.  In 
the  same  packet  were  an  extract  from  Evelyn's  stolen 
letter,  in  Rosamund  Laing's  handwriting,  several 
complete  letters  written  to  him  by  the  girl  herself  after 
leaving  Lochmerig,  and  his  own  long  letter  delivered 
to  her  in  Las  Palmas  by  Peter  Evans. 

It  amused  him  afterwards  to  enclose  these  pieces 
de  conviction  and  the  scrap  of  tattooed  skin  with  the 
full  report  he  was  asked  to  send  to  the  Colonial  Office, 
and  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  an  Under  Secretary 
for  Foreign  Affairs  borrowed  the  said  report  for 
perusal,  and  took  it  with  him  to  wile  away  the  tedious 
hours  of  a  week-end  at  the  seaside  ordered  by  his 
doctor. 

Warden  and  Evelyn  were  married  at  Old  Calabar, 
with  Colville  as  best  man  and  the  Earl  of  Fairholme 
in  loco  parentis.  The  bride's  dress  was  merely  a 
confection  of  white  muslin,  but  she  wore  a  ruby  brooch, 
roughly  contrived  by  a  native  jeweler,  that  would 
have  evoked  the  envy  of  many  a  royal  dame.  The 
finest  wedding  present  to  the  happy  pair  was  the 
bequest  of  Rosamund  Laing's  estate.  Poor  woman! 
she  had  fenced  in  her  gift  with  no  restrictions.  In- 
deed, in  her  will  she  hinted  at  remorse,  for  she  expressed 

327 


The  Message 

the  hope  that  Arthur  Warden  would  be  happy  with  the 
woman  of  his  choice. 

No  one  —  least  of  all  those  acquainted  with  West 
Africa  —  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Warden  re- 
signed his  commission  when  the  affairs  of  Oku  were 
settled.  His  first  care  was  to  visit  Lisbon,  and  insure 
that  the  name  of  Domenico  Garcia  should  never  again 
be  forgotten  in  the  memorial  services  for  the  dead, 
while  every  year,  in  August,  a  special  mass  is  sung  in 
the  Cathedral  of  the  Patriarch  for  the  "repose  of  the 
soul"  of  the  ill-fated  artist.  Two  years  later,  Evelyn 
and  he  were  on  board  the  Nancy,  running  into  Fal- 
mouth  before  a  lively  breeze,  when  Peter  Evans  pointed 
to  a  steam  yacht. 

"There's  the  old  San  Sowsy,"  he  said. 

Evelyn  instantly  turned  her  binoculars  that  way. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Peter,"  she  cried.  "The  Baum- 
gartners  sold  her  before  they  went  to  South  America. 
She  is  like  the  Sans  Souci,  but  that  vessel's  name  is 
Rover" 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  mum,  but  us  pilots  never 
troubles  about  a  craft's  name.  W'y,  I've  known  'em 
to  be  re-christened  w'en  they  was  on'y  fit  for  the  extry 
insurance  of  a  castaway.  That's  the  San  So'wsy  right 
enough.  Chris,  there's  a  picter  postcard  of  'er  in  my 
locker.  Fetch  it,  an'  we'll  run  close  alongside." 

"By  Jove,  you  went  to  a  yacht's  agent  to  get  that 
card  for  me -when  I  forgot  to  note  the  Sans  Souci' s 
exact  lines,  although  I  was  asked  by  the  Under  Secre- 
tary to  observe  them  carefully,"  said  Warden. 

328 


The  Settlement 

"That's  it,  sir.  It's  an  old  sayin'  an'  a  true  one  — 
Keep  a  thing  ten  years  an'  it'll  come  in  useful  at  larst." 

"Fancy  you  forgetting  anything,  Arthur!"  cried  his 
wife.  "You  are  the  one  man  in  the  world  whom  I 
should  never  have  suspected  of  missing  an  item  like 
that  —  it  might  have  been  so  important." 

"Some  places  have  a  phenomenal  effect  on  the 
memory,  my  dear.  I  went  to  Plymouth  with  the 
special  object  of  jotting  down  all  the  Sans  Souci's 
features,  but  I  took  a  stroll  on  the  Hoe,  and  my  mind 
at  once  became  utterly  obtuse  to  every  consideration 
save  one." 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly!  How  could  I  guess  you  would 
bring  Peter's  postcard  in  evidence  against  me?" 

But  she  blushed  most  delightfully,  so  the  recollec- 
tion of  that  evening  at  Plymouth  must  have  been  very 
pleasant,  and  present  happiness  is  apt  to  shed  its 
golden  light  on  the  days  that  are  past. 

THE    END 


329 


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